


Take Me Home

by wordscanchangeus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt Lydia, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapped Lydia, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, Romance, Torture, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordscanchangeus/pseuds/wordscanchangeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the start of the senior year and the horrors that came with it, everyone was hoping things would finally go back to normal. The Pack is back together again, and school is priority number one. But tension is still simmering beneath the surface, especially between Lydia and Stiles, and the supernatural world has come to life once more- this time, in the form of sadistic vampires with a penchant for torture. Great.<br/>So when the detective duo find themselves kidnapped by the suave new villains, with only one another to rely on, it isn't ideal. Mainly because they haven't spoken to each other at all for months. With the stakes running  high, and complication after complication, unresolved feelings are bound to surface. But the vampires have spun a sinister plot, and it doesn't seem likely that the teens will survive much longer.<br/>Can they say the words that have been on the tip of their tongues since that sunlight soaked kiss? Or will fears of unrequited love and the very real threat of death tear them apart once and for all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Word for Discontent

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! First and foremost, I'd like to thank you for thinking this fic is at least worth investigating. I've invested quite a lot of time into writing it, and seeing as it's the first fanfiction I've written that I've published, I'm pretty nervous about putting it out there. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I have done writing it! 
> 
> Secondly, I'd just like to say this fic will be dark in places, and light in others. I tried to balance romance/angst and plot, so chapters will tend to oscillate between those two. Just as a precaution, I'll warn you guys if I think some parts are potentially triggering (which I really hope won't ever be the case).
> 
> Feedback is always very much appreciated, but just knowing there are possibly people out there reading is enough. Once again, thank you and I hope you like it! :)

More than anything else in the world, Lydia wanted to go home. She just wanted to go home. Her heart felt heavy and tender and swollen in her chest, and her eyes refused to stop brimming with tears. She ran a hand raggedly through her hair, setting her jaw stubbornly. _No_. No, she was not going to cry. Not again. Not after the last time.

The last time was just a couple of minutes ago, and she had to run out of AP Biology looking like a total idiot with the excuse that she really needed to go to the bathroom. Now she was certain the whole class thought she had bladder issues. Lydia sighed, blowing a strawberry blonde strand of hair out of her face.

Why was she even feeling like this? It didn’t make any sense. For once in her life, things were actually normal. And seeing how her life was never normal, that meant normal was really, really good. But then again, that’s the thing about normal. It’s another word for discontent. And maybe that was the problem.

Lydia was discontent. She was discontent and frustrated. Frustrated with herself, mainly. For getting herself into this situation where she felt like she had no one to turn to, where she felt the distance between her and her friends was so massive if she were to shout out they wouldn’t be able to hear her anymore (metaphorically speaking, of course- they were freaking werewolves). And then there was Stiles.

Fucking Stiles, with his stupid dorky smile and sweet eyes the colour of buttered popcorn that made Lydia’s heart feel like chocolate melting over a flame. She sounded so much like a hormonal, love-struck teenage girl in that moment, Lydia cringed.

And that, she concluded, was the main problem in her life. She was in love with Stiles Stilinski, and she hated it.

She hated her fluttering pulse whenever he walked by, or her maniacal grin as they had their usual tongue-in-cheek banter. But the thing she hated most was how, despite everything they’d been through together, despite how close they had become, suddenly all of that was gone.

After what had happened with Theo, everyone had drifted apart. Scott and Kira felt tense around one another, Stiles and Malia had broken up. Though they remained a pack, it wasn’t the same tight-knit community it had been before. Stiles and Lydia in particular had withdrawn from one another, and that troubled her to no end.

It just didn’t make sense. What had happened? How had they become so close to being something, only for it to end up as nothing at all? Lydia shook her head, dispelling the train of thought. Every time she went down that track, it depressed her. So instead of thinking at all, she quickly grabbed her purse, fixed the mascara massacre on her face, and headed out of the bathroom.

The bell rang for last period, English. For about the billionth time that day, Lydia sighed. It was her only lesson with yours truly. Agitated, she ruffled out her copper curls before strutting down the corridor and into class.

And there he was. Pencil balanced between his teeth, chatting to Scott with a melodramatically cynical expression and lips quivering with the anticipation of making a witty quip. Lydia had to suppress both the urge to roll her eyes and smile at him like the sun. _Yup, I most definitely hate him_ , she thought. _Or love him._ She wasn’t sure which it was out of the two.

She took a seat next to Kira, who gave her a goofy grin. They chatted for a bit before lesson, Kira with her usual verve and Lydia politely listening to the other girl’s story about Scott taking her out for a date to the cinema. Hearing about their love life often ruefully curved the strawberry blonde’s lips, as it so painfully paralleled Allison’s romance with the kind-hearted Alpha.

Lydia couldn’t help but wonder if she’d feel quite so alone if Allison were still alive. The strawberry blonde’s eyes flitted over to Stiles. She remembered a time when he had been there to hold her hand after it had happened. He had virtually been her replacement- Lydia winced at the thought that Allison could ever be replaced- best friend. And now that was gone.

Tears started to prickle in her eyes again. God, she had to stop doing that. Going down depressing routes on an already depressing day was just going to make her even more (wait for it) depressed.

Finally, the lesson started. It was dull, the teacher’s voice droned, and Lydia felt more and more drained as it went on and on. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Stiles chewing on his pencil and clearly not paying any attention to the lesson. Lydia scrunched her nose up in disapproval. The lanky boy just so happened to spot her watching him. Always the easily startled, Stiles jumped in his seat and the pencil dropped out of his mouth. It’s mangled, salivary end hit the table with a delicate plop. The banshee smirked, to which he responded with an apologetic raised brow. Their gaze lingered for a moment.

Then Lydia turned her attention back to the board. It was the most interaction they had had in weeks. And, for some reason, that sparked something between the two of them again.

After class, Stiles made a bee-line straight for Lydia, who was at her locker. He impatiently tapped his feet in an attempt to gain her attention, and Lydia smiled to herself. What had brought about this sudden change? Unless...

“What do you want, Stiles?” she demanded, shooting him down with her best glare.

“Okay, I know we haven’t really spoken in a while,” he began, his hands making nervous, fluttery gestures “And so, first and foremost, I’d like to apologise for that-“

“What do you _want_ , Stiles?”

“I want your help.”

“With?”

“With... something.”

“Okay, stop being ambiguous. Specify.” Lydia snapped. She was irritated both with him and herself- the latter for being so stupid to think he would actually want to talk to her for the sake of talking, and the former for being an all-round idiot.

“Fine, fine,” Stiles relented, holding up his hands. Their eyes met for the first time since the start of the conversation, and Lydia felt her heart contract.

“What is it then, Stiles?” she said, sighing, but with less of an edge to her voice now.

“Okay, this is going to sound stupid but... Banshees can sense death, right?” he asked, brow furrowing. Lydia nodded. “Well like the past couple of days I’ve been... there’s been this really awful smell.”

“You’re a teenage boy, Stiles. Surely that’s a given.”

Stiles gave her a withering look. “I’m being serious! Sometimes, there’s this weird smell, kind of like following me? And it smells like... like death.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Lydia summarised. The boy nodded solemnly. “Okay fine. So what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Just spend the night with me?” he asked sheepishly, hand scrubbing at the back of his hair.

The strawberry blonde’s heart skipped a beat. She cocked up an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m thinking maybe a ghost or something’s following me,” he explained, his eyes intense and searing on hers. He wasn’t joking, which was disconcerting. “So, if you’re there with me, maybe you can make contact? Y’know, be the Banshee!”

“I’m not conducting a séance,” Lydia deadpanned.

“I’m not asking you to! Just, I don’t know, hang around me for the evening.”

“And what does hanging around consist of?”

“Well, it’s never around when I’m at the house- only if I’m outdoors or something. So...”

“-Stiles, it’s the start of Winter Break and you want me to spend my night strolling around with you aimlessly in the freaking freezing cold?”

“Please?”

One word was all it took for Lydia’s resolve to crumble. “Oh god, alright then. Where do you want to meet up?”

“The Preserve, say eight o’clock?”

Lydia sighed, nodded, and Stiles gave her his brightest smile. Despite herself, she felt her lips spread up in return. As much as she hated to admit it, nothing made Lydia glow more than seeing Stiles smile. When he did, it was almost as if his cheerful light- the light that made his eyes bright and sparkling, that animated his ridiculously melodramatic movements and boundless energy- flooded into her as well.

Looking at him was like holding her hand above a flame, Lydia summarised- warm, intense, and dangerous if she held her gaze too long. And yet she would always dare to get burnt again, just for the thrill of playing with fire.

Stiles shifted suddenly, and Lydia realised she had been staring. Heat blossomed on her cheeks. She hastily said goodbye to Stiles and, ducking her head down, darted out of the school. The boy called out after her, reminding her about their meeting at eight. She didn’t dare turn back to him.

Then Lydia got in her car, and sped off. The reality of the situation had just hit her. She was going on a date with Stiles. Well, not a proper date. Though it was along the right lines. But she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream with excitement, or cry hysterically at what an idiot she’d just been. The guy hadn’t spoken to her for virtually months, and yet after the first sign of interest she’s bending over backwards for him? Lydia gritted her teeth.

But it was too late to back out now. Infuriated and miserable, Lydia pressed her foot all the way down on the accelerate and thought that if she was fast enough, she could get away from all of her problems. She was wrong.

***

Stiles thrummed his fingers impatiently on his forearm, letting out a puff of air. Leaning back so he was supported by his trusty old Jeep, Roscoe, he checked his phone. The time read ten past eight. She was ten minutes late. They were meant to be meeting at the Preserve cliff edge.

If Stiles had been thinking rationally, he would have just put Lydia’s tardiness down to the fact there was bad traffic, or she simply hadn’t left on time. But of course, he wasn’t thinking rationally, and so all sorts of parasitic thoughts wormed their way in.

What if she hated him now? What if she had said yes just to stand him up? What if the distance set in motion between them could never be closed? Stiles knew he’d been an idiot. He knew he’d pulled away from Lydia. It had been inadvertent, but still. He wasn’t quite sure why he had done it in the first place.

Maybe it was because they had become so close that he had gotten scared. After so many years of pining for Lydia Martin, the moment things could turn from fantasy to reality, he had to run away.

Stiles had become friends with Lydia. Really good friends. And he was happy with that. But if something were to happen between them, it could easily go one way or the other. Beautifully or cataclysmically. And he wasn’t willing to take that risk. He valued their friendship far too much. Maybe Lydia Martin was a piece of art to be observed at a certain distance- close enough you could bask in its beauty, but never touching in case you damage the intricacies.

Not that Stiles only valued Lydia for her looks. No, she was so much more than that. In fact, her beauty was pale in comparison to the feisty spirit that lived within. If people were elements then she would be the flame- passionate, compassionate, fierce and firm.

He had never met someone like that before. Someone so challenging, so consistently infuriating and so endlessly caring and interesting. He found that if his own fire were ever doused, she was the one that could set him alight again.

He loved that. But did that mean he loved her? It didn’t. It couldn’t. They had never touched one another the way lovers do. They had looked at each other that way, and their smiles had suggested it. But they had never touched. And how can you know you love someone without doing that?

Then Stiles remembered that kiss. That one kiss.

He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He was about to spend the night with this girl, and he really didn’t want that to be on his mind. He had tortured himself enough about it already.

His phone buzzing offered a distraction. It was a text from the Banshee herself, reading _“Almost there, be with you in a minute.”_

 _Finally_ , Stiles thought. He was getting cold. With winter having closed in, the sky was already absolute in its darkness despite the early evening. Ribbons of crystalline fog rippled in the wind, a wind that spitefully snapped at the slithers of skin Stiles had unfortunately left exposed. The tip of his sloped nose was red and raw, and his breath came out in glittering plumes of vapour.

Stiles went to grab his scarf from the Jeep and wrap it around his neck. And that’s when he heard it. The harsh, dry snap of a twig. Then another snap. And another. It sounded like crushing bones.

“Lydia, is that you?” he called out. There was no response. And then Stiles could suddenly smell it. The smell from before.

It invaded his nostrils, cloy and cold. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it certainly made him feel wrong. That’s why it reminded him of death. Most people would think death would smell like rotten flesh, or coppery blood. But no. Death was metal grated with sickeningly sweet sugar. It pretended it was going to help you sleep, then gripped your heart in its icy hand and squeezed until it no longer beat.

A shiver worked its way up Stiles’s spine. The hairs on the back of his neck were like needles, icy and pricking at his skin. He felt like this every time the smell wafted his way. He just hoped to god Lydia would get there in time. Pushing off his Jeep, he wandered forward to peer further into the woods.

“Hello? Weird stalker ghost thing? You out there?” he shouted out to the empty air. His voice echoed eerily through the trees, which creaked and moaned in response. But besides that, everything was quiet. The twig snapping had stopped.

Stiles went still, listening. His breathing was ragged, his heartbeat heavily thudding.

“Hello?” he said again. The smell had disappeared. Well, it looked like Lydia had missed it. Sighing, he let his guard down. And that’s when it struck.

There was the sound of scuttling leaves, then a blur. Before he knew what was happening, Stiles’s legs had been knocked out from beneath him. He hit the ground. The impact was a punch to the chest, winding him. He let out a choked sob.

He scrambled up to his feet, heart racing and eyes watering, and then attempted to sprint back over to the Jeep. He never made it that far. It hit him again, barrelling into his side and tossing him through the air.

Stiles landed on his back this time, his head slamming into the ground with such force the world around him burst into blisteringly bright white light. Panicked and overrun with adrenaline, he quickly clambered up again and took off into the woods. His vision swerved back into focus. Just in time as well, as he nearly ended up smacking into a tree. Instead of that, he placed his hands on the rough bark and used it to shove himself forward and pick up speed.

His chest was heaving, and his breaths came out in ragged sobs, his arms thrusting manically to gain ground on his attacker. He could hear them just behind, letting out a sadistic and delighted hiss. Stiles knew that this was a chase simply for the pleasure of a kill. He just had to keep running. Running long enough to find help.

Thud, thud, thud. The sound of his feet and heartbeat, slamming into the rough earth and pounding furiously in his chest. His eyes desperately surveyed his surroundings, looking for the main road that weaved its way through the Preserve. And then there it was. There was safety.

Stiles lengthened his stride, centred his balance and pumped his arms harder. Twenty metres. Twenty metres and he would be able to get to help. Fifteen metres. A pair of headlights appeared, filtering through the foliage and bringing to life dust motes that shivered and swayed as Stiles sprinted past. Ten metres. Another pair of headlights! There were two cars now. Five metres. Stiles threw his body forward, straight into the middle of the road.

“He-hey!” he cried out, voice hoarse from exertion “H-help! Help me!”

He stumbled a couple of steps before regaining his footing, and waved his hands frantically for the cars to stop. They swerved around him and his heart plummeted, before he realised they were just pulling up onto the side of the road. One of them was a SUV, the other he recognised to be Lydia’s. She hadn’t stood him up after all.

Nothing came barrelling into him again, and so Stiles assumed whatever it was that had attacked him was gone. His spine still tingled like he was being watched, though. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, he staggered towards the now-opening car doors.

“Stiles, what the hell happened?” Lydia demanded, climbing out and throwing herself into his embrace. She quickly surveyed his body for injury, her fingers lightly brushing over a bruise forming on his forehead. Stiles was quietly pleased that she did so.

“I don’t know,” he admitted “I smelt it. I smelt it and then... then...”

He stopped dead in his tracks. Because there it was. The smell had come back, and it was more overwhelming than it had ever been before. Stiles dropped down to his knees, and began to retch.

“What is it?” Lydia asked, panicked.

“You don’t smell that?” Stiles managed to gasp out between gags. And then it occurred to them. Whoever was in the SUV hadn’t come out.

The anguished boy dragged himself to his feet again, and whirled around to peer into the car. He couldn’t see anything. All of the windows were blacked out. Even the front ones. But that didn’t make sense... How could they drive? Lydia, picking up his train of thought, straightened her back.

“They followed me all the way here,” she explained in a whisper. Her hand searched about until it found his. “That’s why I was late. I was trying to get them off my back.”

Realisation hit Stiles, a nauseating punch to the gut. “We need to go. We need to go right now.”

“What about your Jeep? What happened to it?” the strawberry blonde asked as the two teens rushed back to her car.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles said distractedly, his eyes on the still-stationary SUV. Lydia was the first to get in, and then leant over the passenger seat to unlock the door. Her hands fumbled at the lock, taking up a few more seconds of their precious time.

And it was only a moment later that their lost time proved to be very precious indeed, because Stiles felt a cold hand clamp around his wrist as he went to open the door. He froze, eyes widening. A second hand came up, curling itself into his hair. His head was yanked back.

“What the hell?” Stiles cried out in surprise, struggling furiously. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a flash of something long, thin and silver.

“This will only take a second,” said a voice at his neck, rough and masculine “Hold still. Don’t move.”

His eyes briefly made contact with his captor’s and then, for some reason, all protest left Stiles’s body. He visibly relaxed, eyes glazing over. Sense only came back to him when Lydia screamed as the needle plunged itself into his neck. He gasped as the syringe’s substance was emptied into his veins. Then the hands let go.

The boy swayed on his feet, before tumbling to the ground. The man who had held him captive simply laughed as Stiles feverishly attempted to scramble backwards and away. He lazily strode over and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“This will be a whole lot easier if you don’t try to fight it,” he said in a perfectly reasonable tone. Stiles wearily looked up at him. Whatever he had injected him with, it was working fast. The boy turned to Lydia, who was watching them with a horrified expression.

“Lydia, go,” Stiles croaked out “You can go, just- drive...”

“No fucking way! Who the hell do you think you are?” the fiery haired girl demanded, slamming the car door behind her with such fury the man startled “Get the hell away from him!”

The man looked kindly down at Stiles. He felt sick to his stomach. “No. No, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

That’s when Stiles heard Lydia’s scream. He jumped in alarm, and attempted to drag himself up, to get over to her and help. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even lift a linger. His whole body felt so heavy, as if weighed down by an actual physical presence. A coiling sensation rolled about in his gut.

“Leave her alone,” he managed to slur. He took a deep breath of air, and let out a shuddery, sleepy sigh. His whole body was shutting down.

“Now, now. Don’t worry,” his captor cooed, leaning in so their faces were mere millimetres apart “We need her as much as we need you.”

“What... what did... you do to her...?” Stiles demanded weakly. In one last ditch effort to escape, his hand went to claw at the man’s throat, who simply laughed and swatted the pathetic thing away.

Stiles let out a heavy breath, and his hand flopped down to the ground. Everything was so distant now. He barely felt like he was in his body at all- had it not been for the hand on his neck, he could almost have floated away. Somewhere far-off, he heard a girl call out his name. She sounded a lot like Lydia.

Forgetting the rest of the world, Stiles smiled sloppily as he slipped under the spell of sleep, only one thought on his mind; _she’s worried about me. She cares about me._

And then his body slumped and his grip on reality went limp. After that, there was only darkness. Darkness, and the bitter taste of death on his tongue.


	2. The Absolute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Stiles wake up in a strange place, and they go to investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and a comment on the first chapter, or anyone who just gave it a read! That really meant a lot to me :) In case anyone was wondering, I have pre-written 6 chapters of this fic, so there hopefully won't be a shortage any time soon!
> 
> Mild warning for this chapter, there is one part that is somewhat disturbing. I only say this to be on the careful side though, so just read with caution if you're quite easily triggered (but trust me, it's not that bad). Also, I'm not a doctor so I have no idea how the stuff that comes up in this chapter works beyond what I read on a Wikipedia article lol
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy reading :) I'm praying that it all makes sense and I haven't made any mistakes! Feel free to ask if you are confused about anything :)

Lydia woke in bed curled up next to Stiles and, in that moment, everything could have been perfect. His hand was wrapped around hers, their shoulders were brushing. Celestial light shone down on the two, adding a glow to Stiles’s skin and bleaching out Lydia’s coppery hair so it looked like a spill of liquid silver. Their breathing was in unison, serene and without a care in the world. Lydia watched the messy-haired boy sleep, and a small smile tickled at her lips. Everything could have been perfect.

But then reality came crashing down, and the peace shattered like china on a stone floor. Lydia realised how swollen her tongue felt in her mouth, how the world dipped in and out of focus, throbbing bizarrely as it did so. And then she noticed how still Stiles was. His breathing was steady, a low exhale and slow inhale. Even. Unnaturally even.

Lydia sat up. The delicious haze of sleep was quickly ebbing away, and she could finally think straight. Her free hand went to Stiles’s face, cupping his cheek. He remained unresponsive.

“Stiles! Stiles, wake up!” Lydia said, shaking him gently. Still no response, not even the flutter of an eyelid. Her shakes became more frantic. “You have to get up now Stiles. Come on, Stiles!”

Nothing. Nothing at all. Lydia carefully turned his head to the side, exposing his neck. Sure as anything, there it was. The singular puncture wound. So insignificant had she not been looking she wouldn’t have spotted it at all. Whatever that man had injected Stiles with, it was effective. But at least he was still alive. At least he was still alive.

The strawberry blonde let out a frustrated huff, running a hand through her hair. She pushed herself off the bed and onto her feet, turning around to observe her surroundings. Apparently the two of them had been sharing a bed- or, it seemed, two beds pushed together. Well, at least their captors had been considerate.

Except... what if they hadn’t been kidnapped at all? When Lydia looked, she realised they were in a hospital. It didn’t quite make sense. But really, when did her life ever make sense? She continued to pad around the room, poking and prodding at the hospital equipment scattered about, before spotting the window. She went to it, peering out at the view it revealed.

They weren’t in Beacon Hills anymore, that was for sure. All she saw outside was skeletal trees and an empty car park. It was too dark to see much else, and there didn’t appear to be any buildings or lampposts to light up the night. She checked her pockets, and realised she no longer had her phone. Someone must have taken it off of her.

Lydia took a shuddery breath, a hollow pit opening up in her chest. It felt like the floor was slipping out from beneath her feet, and all she could do was stumble to keep her balance. Emotions rushed through her in waves. Panic, nausea, confusion- and above all else, anger for Stiles. If it wasn’t for him she wouldn’t even be in this mess. But... if she hadn’t been there, then he would be in it alone. And Lydia couldn’t stand the thought of that. Seeing him so vulnerable on the bed made her heart wrench.

So yes, she was annoyed at him. Yes, he hadn’t spoken to her for months and then the second he needed her, it was like nothing had changed. And yes if she had stood him up, like she had so desperately wanted to, she wouldn’t even be in this situation right now.

But no, that didn’t mean she could just abandon him. No, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t fight tirelessly for him, that she would stop caring for him. In fact, she couldn’t stop caring for him, no matter how hard she tried. She had learnt that lesson a long, long time ago.

Lydia heard a moan, and whirled around to see the lanky boy stirring on the bed. He really did look young, she observed. Sleepy, and without that hard set to his jaw and sardonic shield to hide behind, he was simply Stiles. His eyes were soft. His cheeks still held a little of that fat from being a kid. There was a lack of self-assurance in his stride. He was still young. And so was she. So how had they gotten themselves into this mess?

Lydia started towards him, but he waved her away. Dragging himself up to a stand, he stumbled a couple of steps before making his way over to her.

“How’re you feeling?” Lydia asked, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Well, jokes on the dicks that kidnapped us. I haven’t had such a good night’s sleep in weeks,” Stiles replied. The shield was back up.

“You know, I’m not even sure that’s what happened,” she said softly, looking back to the window.

“What do you mean?” Stiles questioned sleepily.

“We’re in a hospital, dumbass,” she said, arms gesturing to around them “I think we must have been found and brought here to recover. I don’t know.”

“There are about eighteen billion plot holes in that explanation, Lydia,” Stiles frowned, joining her at the window.

“Yes, Stiles, I’m aware of that,” she snapped back “But nothing makes sense either way.”

Stiles sighed, casting his gaze out to the window. Lydia watched him in the reflection, biting down on her lip. Dark circles dragged down his eyes, and he was still in the clothes from before. Beads of sweat tracked down his forehead. Grudgingly, she also noticed his hair. It was tousled in an unintentionally adorable way.

In that moment, all she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and not let go until the end of the night. Until sunlight spilled into the room, and set them alight with its golden glow. Until the throbbing pain in her heart went still. Instead, she kept her arms folded. Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, squeezed, and then opened them again.

“Well, I’m going to find out what’s going on,” he announced, moving to turn away. Then he just so happened to catch her eye, reflected in the glass window. His mouth opened, but the words went unspoken on his lips.

Lydia flicked her gaze away. “Fine. Let’s go investigate.”

The two of them went to the door, found it unlocked, and then headed down the hospital corridor. None of the lights were on, besides the occasional flicker that quickly went out with a crackle of electricity. Doors were wide open, discarded papers scuttled along the floor. A strange wind blew in and out of the hallway, the whooshing, heaving sound like the ragged breathing of a lurking beast. Lydia’s hand went to Stiles’s. He looked down at it, mildly surprised.

“I’m still pissed off with you,” she whispered, her hair slightly ruffled by the wind.

“Why are you pissed off with me?” he asked, incredulous.

Lydia gave him a long look. “Seriously? If you can’t figure that out, you’re more of an idiot than I give you credit for Stilinski.”

“Wha-?”

They reached one of the open doors and Lydia shushed him. They stopped to peer in. It was a dark, dreary room and emitted the occasional beep of a heart monitor. There was also a woman sat inside, slumped in a chair by the window. Several alien-looking tubes were attached to her, including a drip chamber. She could have been dead. But then she noticed the two teens by the door, and waved them in. Lydia and Stiles exchanged worried glances before complying.

“Hi, sorry Ma’am,” Lydia started, her fingers plucking nervously at some loose thread on her coat “We’re just trying to find some nurses.”

“That’s quite alright dear,” the woman said, smiling kindly “The nurses said they’ll be around in a minute.”

There was silence for a moment. Chills spiked along Lydia’s skin, yet her hand felt far too hot and clammy in Stiles’s.

“Hey, so, um... How come you’re here then? If you don’t mind me asking,” Stiles said, rubbing a sweaty palm against the back of his neck, eyes flitting over to Lydia again.

“Just a blood transfusion,” the woman replied, nodding weakly towards to the drip chamber.

Stiles frowned, studying her. She didn’t appear to have any injuries... “You get into an accident or something?”

“Oh no, dear. They just said they needed my blood,” she told them, her eyes hazy “They said I’m a blood donor.”

“That’s a lot of blood they’re taking,” Lydia stated, pointing to the bag her drip chamber was attached to. It was already full. “I thought a litre was the max for blood donation at a time. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, dear, I’m fine,” she replied dreamily. A lazy finger went to point at the strawberry blonde’s neck. “See, you’re alright- and they did the exact same thing to you.”

The younger girl froze, her eyes widening. Her fingertips went to her throat. They came away wet.

“Stiles, what does she mean?” Lydia whirled around. The boy looked horrified. He shook his head, mouth slightly agape. “What does she mean?”

Suddenly, a voice came from the door. “Miss Martin? Mr Stilinski?”

The two turned in terrified unison, their hands still tightly clasped together. A young man stepped out from the shadows. He was roughly in his mid-twenties, had a handsome face and a sinister smile. He looked nothing like a doctor, even though he mockingly adorned the robe. There was a crimson stain on the white coat.

Stiles was the one to break the deadly silence, with his usual level of sarcasm. “Oh, hey Dr Creepy. I meant to say. We cancelled our appointments.”

The man chuckled darkly, taking another step forward. Lydia gave Stiles’s hand a quick squeeze, a pressure he gently returned.

“Sorry, we don’t accept appointment cancellations here,” Dr Creepy said, his teeth exposed in a sneer, slowly peeling off the Doctor’s coat.

“Really?” Stiles said, with mock incredulity “You know, I don’t think that’s how the whole system works.”

“Shut up,” the man snapped.

“So let me get this straight... on top of the kidnapping, the mind-fucking, and the drug abuse, the staff here are also rude?” the snarky boy went on, rolling his eyes “Wow, this is really terrible patient service. Don’t expect me not to sue.”

The man took another step toward them, his hands twitching at his side- in one of them, he held a needle. Lydia’s eyes widened and she swallowed, thinking hard. No way was she letting him knock them out again. But what could she do? They were trapped in this tiny room, with him blocking the exit. Only one idea was springing to mind. And it was a really, really bad one. But hey, bad ideas were kind of hers and Stiles’s signature thing.

“Okay, fine. We’ll go with you,” Lydia said, moving forward with her hands held up. Stiles looked at her disbelievingly, and attempted to pull her back, but she resisted.

“Oh really? Both of you?” the man sneered, coming in closer. There was less than a metres distance between the two of them now. _That’ll have to do_ , Lydia thought.

“Actually, no. Sorry sweetheart,” she said with a sugary smile, before shoving her knee up into the man’s groin.

He collapsed to the ground, groaning and swearing furiously. He lurched forward in an attempt to grab her leg, but Lydia simply frowned and threw in a second kick for good measure.

“Oh my god!” Stiles exclaimed, his mouth hanging open and tipped up in a disbelieving smile “This is why I love you-“ Lydia’s eyes widened, and he quickly checked himself “-In a platonic way, of course. Totally platonic.”

“Well, okay then...” she said with an airy laugh to hide the hurt, holding her hand out to him “Anyway, that was exhilarating. Come on, let’s go!”

Darting around the man, the two of them raced off down the corridor again. The wind from before seemed to pick up, buffeting the two and causing Lydia’s hair to snap viciously. Stiles’s grip on her hand tightened. They started to run faster.

It was so, so dark. The only light was the moon’s illumination, which came in slithers as they raced by the windows. All of the corridor’s doors were open and each room, they realised with horror, was the same as the one they had just been in. Young and old, male or female, there was always a person sat in a chair, always with the life slowly draining out of them. What sickened Lydia most was that none of them were bothered by it. Drugged up on whatever their kidnappers had given them, their smiles were dreamy and eyes heavily lidded.

If they didn’t get out of there, the two teens were going to end up the exact same. Lydia’s thoughts flew to her neck, to the fingertips that had come away red with blood. What the hell had they done to her?

They turned a corner at the end of the corridor, and found themselves in another one. Stiles’s feet slipped on the floor, and he stumbled, but managed to retain his balance. Back to running. Running, running, running. Heart’s thumping, jumping, hammering. Each breath Lydia took tore through her lungs, leaving them painfully dry and raw. Another turn, another corridor.

“Where the hell is it?” she gasped out, a stitch ripping through her side “Where’s the exit?”

“Don’t... know...” Stiles panted, sweat pouring off his forehead “I think... think... that’s a stairwell... up ahead.”

He was right. Lydia let out a sigh of relief, putting on a brief spurt of speed to reach it. When they finally did, they found it was a stairwell with no stairs. Just a drop that plummeted down into darkness.

“Shit,” Stiles breathed, a hand going to brush back his hair. A sadistic chuckle came from behind them. All of Lydia’s energy left her body with a low, exhausted huff of air.

“What do you want with us?” she called out, still facing the stairwell. Now, it almost seemed worth the risk of jumping down into an unknown fate. She’d rather do that than face the very definite situation before her. People were wrong when they said that fear of the unknown was the worst kind. No, the absolute is terrifying. When all you can do is watch and wait for the inevitable to happen. Wait for the world to come crashing down.

“Well, I’m not going to string you up to a drip chamber if that’s what you’re worried about,” the man said, running his tongue along his teeth. He strode toward them with swaggering arrogance. “No, you two aren’t basic lamb up for meat. If you were, the wolves would have torn you apart by now.”

He was talking about Scott and the rest of the pack, Lydia realised. How did he know about them? How did he know their names?

“What do you want?”she asked again with more force. She and Stiles finally turned around to face the man. She hated to admit it, but he was most definitely handsome. He had clear blue eyes, casually tossed ink-black hair and a confident curve to his lips, the elegant features balanced out by a long face and sharp jaw.

“All in good time,” he said, coming to a stop in front of them. In his hand, he held the needle. _No, no, no. Not again. Not again, please, not again._

“Who are you?” Stiles demanded, his arm coming up to place a barrier between the other man and Lydia.

“I am Isaiah,” he replied simply.

“Okay, _Isaiah_ ,” Stiles said, his eyes narrowing, sizing up the man “You’re going to let us go, right now. We’re going to go report this whole blood-draining cult thing you got going on to the police. And then, hey ho, happy ending for everyone. You get to go to a mental health hospital, and we get to go home.”

“Cult? You think we’re a cult?” Isaiah scoffed, starting to laugh “I thought you were meant to be smart, Stiles. How have you not figured it out by now?”

The younger boy remained stubbornly silent, his gaze unwavering on the man’s.

“You’re vampires,” Lydia stated, her fingers unconsciously going to the wound on her neck. Two punctures, right above the vein. They must have bitten her after she passed out. Isaiah shuddered, giving her a displeased look.

“As you teens like to call us, yes,” he said, pacing back and forth “You only know such a romanticised version though. So watered down. Not nearly as brilliant as we truly are.”

Stiles spoke up. “You know what’s not brilliant? Your evil villain speech. It’s kind of cliché. Not a fan, dude.”

The vampire looked at him, contemplating, for a moment. He cocked his head one way. Cocked it back the other. And then he moved. The needle was a flash of lightning arching through the air, striking Stiles in the neck. Its contents were quickly emptied into the vein, and then it was slowly pulled out again.

“Again? Are you freaking kidding me?” Stiles slurred out, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed. Lydia caught him just in time. This stuff was faster acting, far more powerful.

“Stiles, you idiot,” she muttered, lowering him down to the ground. She rested his head in her lap, hastily brushing the hair that had flopped into his face away.

“Incubi, succubus... sirens and vampires...” Isaiah went on, as if nothing had happened “All names for the same thing. We’re creatures of death and seduction, Lydia.”

“What does that have to do with me and Stiles?” she demanded, throwing him her most venomous look.

“As a result of his sacrifice, Stiles is a boy who died. Who should be dead. You, you are a Banshee. And Banshees predict death. Are.... attracted by it,” he trailed off, throwing her a suggestive smile. She shivered. He clearly didn’t realise how sleazy that was. “Sounds to me like you two already had a lot to do with death before we even arrived here.”

“So Stiles was right,” she said, gritting her teeth “He could smell the death on you.”

“Only because we wanted him to. Quite a good trap, wasn’t it? Leave our scent out to pique his interest, plant the idea in his head to ask for your help. Then that naturally lured you both out into the open, where you were all alone.”

“You’re a bastard,” Lydia hissed.

“And he had no idea. Neither did you,” Isaiah continued, moving to crouch down besides her.

His hand went to tuck some stray strands of hair behind her ear, purposefully and painfully similar to what she had done to Stiles’s. She flinched away from the touch. He had exposed her neck. The vampire caught her chin, pinched it between his fingers. He squeezed, just enough to hold in place but not to hurt. Their eyes locked with one another. Lydia felt the fight in her go out. He started to lean in and she couldn’t do anything about it. Didn’t want to do anything about it. The haze that had settled over her mind was bliss, smoothing out any panic she had had before. His lips came to rest at the skin of her neck. He gave it a delicate nibble. Lydia’s eyes widened briefly, then became hooded once more.

Stiles murmured softly, and stirred on her lap. Stiles. _Stiles_. The one person nothing like the calm floating through her veins, with his flailing limbs and unrelenting complaints that people found so annoying. But she didn’t mind that about him. She liked it. He was an energetic, sprawling mess of a person, and all Lydia wanted to do was lose herself in his deliciously chaotic disarray.

And so, with all of her might, Lydia shoved the boring calm and Isaiah away. The vampire let out a grunt but, much to her surprise, relented and pushed up to stand again. He smiled down at the two of them. It was a sinister smile.

“You are rather fond of him, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head, amused.

Lydia remained stoic and silent. The vampire made a sound of approval.

“Good. He’ll do just fine then. We have so much planned for you, Lydia. And Stiles is going to help us carry it all out.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, gathering the limp boy closer to her chest.

“Blackmail, Lydia,” he said, launching forward and grabbing Stiles by the scruff of his neck. Then, with a sharp yank, Isaiah pulled the boy from Lydia’s arms. She let out a cry. Stiles dangled in his grasp, lank and unresponsive.

“Blackmail,” Isaiah hummed again “It’s a wonderful thing, don’t you think?”


	3. Blood Donor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds himself facing a serious threat; the vampires begin questioning Lydia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who gave this fic a read, or left a comment/kudos. It really brightens my day and motivates me to keep writing! There are now 7 complete chapters of 'Take Me Home', so I'll be updating consistently, for those who were wondering :)
> 
> The same warnings I left on last chapter apply to this one, except perhaps more so. Once again, I only say this to be completely on the safe side.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! Feedback/constructive criticism is always massively appreciated, so I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have the time :)

Stiles finally woke up after being knocked out for about the tenth time that day. His whole body throbbed, his stomach twisted with nausea. Sunlight pooled into the room and washed over him, warming his skin with its gentle, silken touch. He blinked away the translucent film smeared across his vision.

When everything came into clarity, he realised he was still in the hospital. Dread started to curl up in his gut. A heart monitor was in the corner, and began to pick up its sluggish beat. His heartbeat. It was his heartbeat, and it was attached to him. Stiles swallowed thickly, bile burning in his throat. He abruptly sat up. Or at least he tried to.

He was strapped down to a chair. A sob wrenched itself from his lungs, and he shoved against the restraints. It made no difference. His legs were tied, his arms pinned down and his chest strapped.

“Help,” he cried out, voice hoarse and strained.

A dark figure materialised from the shadows. It was the man who had kidnapped him before. Not Isaiah, Stiles noted. Or Lydia. Where the hell was Lydia?

“So, are all vampires incredibly creepy? Or are you and your friends just going through a Goth phase?” Stiles croaked, levelling his captor’s gaze with a glare.

He was a tall, thickly built man. Handsome, once again, but with his cutting cheekbones, prominent brow and eyes as sharp and silver as a knife, he had harsher lines to his waxy face than Isaiah.

Stiles peered past him to see what he had been doing in the shadows, and noticed there was a camera with several thick black cords running off of it.

“That’s right, say ‘Hi’ to the camera,” the man drawled, waving enthusiastically at the beady-eyed gadget “Your pretty little friend is just on the other side watching us.”

“Lydia,” Stiles breathed, his struggles against the restraints becoming more feverish.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” the vampire said, leaping over to him. His eyes were wild with delight. “Don’t try and escape.”

“Oh wow, you saying that has me entirely convinced,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

He continued to strain, even managing to pry off one of the straps on his wrist. He landed a good punch at his captor’s jaw before receiving one of his own, which whipped his head back. Pain blasted through him, leaving him senseless- all he saw was white, all he heard was buzzing.

His fingers blindly clawed at the hands pinning him down. One went to roughly grab him by the chin. The world snapped back into focus, but it was too sharp, too colourful. Overwhelming. Searing, blinding light. So alive with adrenaline, everything he touched singed his skin. His eyes locked with his captor’s. If possible, his struggles became even more frantic.

“Don’t try to escape,” the man said again, his gaze burning into the younger boy’s. Stiles suddenly slumped, a lulling sensation seeping through his veins.

“No fair... vampire powers,” he muttered, sinking further into his seat.

Stiles willed his muscles to comply, to snap off the restraints, but they remained limp and relaxed. Satisfied, the vampire stepped away and picked something off the floor. His hand caught the sunlight, but he didn’t react. Stiles groaned internally.

“Okay, so let me get this straight. You have mind control, super speed and strength, _and_ you don’t burn in sunlight?” he asked, panting slightly. “Surely that’s just overkill. I mean, come on, nature has to balance out, right?”

“Sunlight bothers, but does not burn us. But people like to say otherwise, so their children can have at least some peace of mind,” the man explained, turning back to Stiles, wielding some IV tubes and a drip chamber in his hand.

“Okay, hang on. You don’t have to do this,” Stiles gulped, voice cracking on the words. Unable to work against his shackles, he instead leant back into them, trying to get as far away as possible.

“If we want to get our banshee to talk, this is how it’s going to work,” the vampire grinned, advancing.

“But Isaiah... Isaiah said you guys weren’t going to do that to us. That we weren’t common meat, or some creepy serial killer metaphor like that.”

“Things change,” the man sneered, continuing to advance.

“They don’t have to!” Stiles reasoned, swallowing “Who likes change? Nobody likes change! Why don’t we just keep things the way they were, huh? You know, where you threaten me a bit here and there, all in good spirit, and I get to keep my five litres of blood?”

The vampire shook his head, and placed a hand on the teen’s wrist. Holding up the IV tube, he angled it to where it would hit the vein. Stiles writhed about in the seat, panic burning in his throat. He threw off the man’s aim. He growled at the teen, before turning his silvery eyes to Stiles’s gold ones again.

“You’re not scared. You’re not worried,” he cooed, his tone sickeningly soft and consoling. Much to his disbelief, Stiles felt his fears dissipate at the words. His struggles lessened, but still continued. The vampire went on.

“You’re feeling calm. You’re feeling tired.”

All of a sudden, the younger boy felt incredibly heavy. His lids became hooded, his limbs began to float down with gravity. The racing trill of the heart monitor went steady.

“Stop struggling. Stop moving.”

Stiles nodded sleepily.

“Okay Stiles. I’m just going to attach this IV to you, and we’re going to start draining your blood. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay,” Stiles replied, drowsy and calm. Internally, he was screaming. He actually lifted his wrist and offered it to the man. He watched with dreamy, detached interest as the needle-sharp tip of the tube entered his vein. Blood began to pump out. The red began to pool in the drip chamber, oozing and stark against the backdrop of the white and clinical room.

“Now, look directly at the camera.”

Stiles did as he was told.

“I want you to tell Lydia what’s going to happen.”

“They’re going to drain my blood until you talk, Lydia,” he said, eyes staring vacantly into the camera lens.

“And what happens if she doesn’t?”

“Then they’re going to keep draining.”

“Until?”

“Until there’s none left.”

***

Lydia sat there for a few moments, letting reality sink in. Her skin felt like hot metal dipped in ice. Too hot, too cold. Entirely wrong. The blood rushing in her ears was a torrent, swirling and crashing, drowning all else out. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

She was sat in an old doctor’s office, without restraints but still a prisoner. Isaiah sat across from her, his fingers doing a little tap dance on his forearm. He smiled at her, patronising and simpering. The laptop hooked up to the camera in Stiles’s room sat on the table between them.

Lydia watched with a hard expression as Stiles spoke to the camera with glassy eyes not entirely his own. They must have done some of that weird mind control crap on him. She didn’t actually hear a word he was saying. All she could focus on was the blood bag slowly, painfully filling itself up. And then she lost it. She launched herself at Isaiah, raking her nails down his cheek. A satisfying sound ripped through the room as his skin was torn.

“You son of a bitch,” she spat, raising her hand to strike again. This time, however, Isaiah caught it, and viciously threw her back into the chair. He motioned to another vampire in the room, who stormed over and pinned Lydia down. Regaining his composure, Isaiah went to dab away the blood on his cheek. When he moved his hand away the wound was already gone, much to Lydia’s bitter disbelief.

“I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to resort to restraining you, little Banshee,” the vampire sighed, folding his arms. “Stiles will have to pay for that.”

Lydia glowered at him. “Don’t try that manipulative crap with me.”

“Nothing manipulative about it,” Isaiah stated, pushing off his seat and strolling over. He paced around her for a moment, before leaning in and taking a strawberry blonde curl to inspect between his fingers.

“Look, I already told you. I don’t know,” Lydia said, recoiling from his touch.

“But you’ve been there before,” he said, looking amused as he twiddled the curl around his finger.

He was talking about the Nemeton. Of course he was. Everything that had gone wrong in Beacon Hills essentially started there.

“Yeah, and then a psychopathic werewolf took the memory from me,” she replied through gritted teeth, thinking back to Theo “Listen, it’s a place that doesn’t want to be found. If it doesn’t think you’re worthy, you’ll never find it. And seeing as you’re a sociopathic nut job, I’m going to hazard a guess and say you’re not worthy.”

“Aah, yes. But you-“ he tauntingly tapped her on the nose and Lydia flinched “-are. And that’s exactly why we need you.”

“Why me though? There are plenty of other people who are ‘worthy’ and actually know where the Nemeton is. So why didn’t you take them instead?”

Isaiah chuckled, stepping back. “My, my you are a clever one aren’t you? I’m starting to see why your little human friend is quite so enamoured.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Lydia said, setting her jaw. She tried her best to ignore his words about Stiles. He hadn’t liked her like that in a long time.

“And you haven’t been answering any of mine,” Isaiah snapped, cool demeanour starting to melt.

“Why take me over anybody else?” she demanded again.

The vampire was at her throat in a flash. “I don’t care for petulance, Lydia. And I don’t think Stiles will either.”

The heated threat made her eyes burn, but she had to hold her ground. “Why me? Why can’t you just control me like you did Stiles?”

“You’re a Banshee Lydia. The supernatural, dead or not, calls to you. Of course you would be able to find the Nemeton. And, unfortunately, if we were to try and enthral you, it would affect that natural ability. So I’m afraid we’re just going to have to resort to good old fashioned blackmail.”

Lydia swallowed. There was something a little too rehearsed about his words. She considered him for a moment, before replying. “You’re lying about the first part. Maybe that’s part of the reason you took me, but there’s something else.”

There was deadly silence. Isaiah went utterly still, not even his eyes moving or lessening their intensity as they bore into Lydia’s. She ground her teeth and held the glare. What was it that he was so adamant to hide?

“Shall we go give Stiles a visit?” the vampire asked, sickeningly pleasant.

It wasn’t a question. Lurching forward to grab by her by the arm, Isaiah all but dragged Lydia out of the room and down the hospital corridor. It took several twists and turns and stairs before they finally reached Stiles. Lydia stumbled just behind the entire time, swearing furiously but not exactly protesting. She wanted to see Stiles. Needed to see him. She had to make sure he was okay, and then she was getting him the fuck out of that hospital.

“Ah! Here’s our lovely patient!” Isaiah announced cheerfully as he barged into the patient room “You’ve got a guest, Stiles!”

He hauled Lydia in and threw her forward with such force she went sprawling across the floor. Her head collided with the ground, and she was blinded briefly by white light. Isaiah grinned down at her, but didn’t stop there. The man who had been ‘tending’ to the boy before took a step back as the other vampire advanced, snatching Stiles up by the scruff of his neck. Stiles barely even reacted. His head lolled and his despondent eyes rolled up to look at the sneering vampire.

“Now, how are you feeling Mr Stilinski?” Isaiah asked, each word enunciated with a cruel twist.

“I feel like I want to shove this tube up your ass,” the boy croaked, some of his old fire still burning beneath the surface. The mind control was starting to wear off.

“How crude,” Isaiah sighed, nose crinkling in disapproval. He turned back to Lydia, and yanked her to her feet.

Noticing her for the first time, Stiles’s gaze trailed over to Lydia. She had to bite down on her lip to hold back a sob when their eyes met. He was sickeningly pale, a sheen of sweat making his skin seem waxen. His eyes were unfocused and brown bruises were smudged beneath his bottom lashes. Every breath he took was ragged and rattling. Lydia’s heart writhed about in her chest, bile building in her throat.

“What the hell have you done to him?” she demanded. She attempted to wrench herself from the vampire, but his grasp remained firm.

“It’s a perfectly safe blood donation, Lydia,” Isaiah replied jovially, a languid hand motioning to the blood bag. It was completely full now. The knot in her stomach tightened.

“One litre’s the limit for donation,” she ground out.

“Oh no, I’m sure Mr Stilinski won’t mind if we went on to two or three,” the vampire drawled, strolling over to the boy with Lydia in tow. He flashed a smile. “Or five.”

“Hm, I’m pretty sure I would mind you guys murdering me,” Stiles piped up. He sounded sarcastic, but there was a strain to his voice. He began to pull at his restraints again.

Isaiah let out a low sigh. “Darius, I think our patient is quite restless. Care to sedate him again?”

The other vampire, Darius, who had been quietly brooding for a while now, chuckled darkly. Stepping out of the shadowy corner, he moved to take Stiles by the shoulders. The younger boy thrashed about for a moment or two before, much to Lydia’s horror, going still again. His eyes turned to glass.

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“I think you mean what did you do. If you had just answered my question in the first place, this could have been avoided,” Isaiah replied indifferently. He suddenly let her go, and without a second thought Lydia rushed forward to the boy’s side. “And we’ve enthralled him.”

Lydia cupped Stiles’s cheeks and pushed back his hair, eyes imploringly looking into his. He looked at her, but he wasn’t seeing her. She felt hot nausea roll about in her stomach. His usually animated features were smoothed out into a blank slate, his shimmering gold eyes dulled to matte.

“Enthralled?” she repeated slowly, rolling the bizarre word about on her tongue.

“No fear, little Banshee,” Isaiah said with a cheery smile “It’s nothing permanent. Just a nice little trick for us to subdue our prey. Makes feeding off them _so_ much easier.”

“You rob someone of their free will for _convenience?_ ”

“No. We’re not monsters. We merely bend their will to ours,” the vampire replied, busying about with the full blood bag. He detached it from Stiles’s drip chamber, only to pull out a new one. Lydia felt sick. “In fact, I think you’ll find the experience is very relaxing. Almost like being asleep. Wouldn’t you agree Stiles?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, voice detached.

“Fuck you,” Lydia snapped, whirling around to face Isaiah. She levelled an accusatory finger at him.

Her whole body was trembling violently, as if she were battered by a winter’s breeze. But she wasn’t trembling with fear or cold. She was trembling with anger. It gripped her bones and furiously shook them; it sent white hot shots of fury through her that curdled in her veins. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

“Are you ready to tell us where the Nemeton is Lydia?” Isaiah asked sweetly, fitting the replacement blood bag into the drip chamber with an obnoxious pop.

“I already told you, I don’t know,” she ground out. If she could, she would have done. God, she would have done.

“Hm,” was all Isaiah said, deliberating for a moment. His eyes flickered over to Stiles, who was still slumped beside Lydia. The corner of his lips quirked up. “Well Lydia, maybe you need a little extra incentive.”

“I still don’t know,” she snapped.

Isaiah went on, ignoring her. “This whole blood donation business is very boring. _Draining_ , you could say-“ Lydia let out an disgusted growl “-So why don’t we speed up the process?”

“I don’t know where the fucking tree stump is,” she snarled, taking a step back to guard Stiles.

“Hm, yes. But I’m thinking that if we put a timer on it, we might just make a breakthrough. Have a memory suddenly resurface, perhaps,” he continued, taking a long, confident step towards her.

“If you kill him, I’ll never help you,” Lydia fumed. In a sudden flurry, she lurched forward to pull off Stiles’s restraints- but a firm hand caught hers.

“Oh, don’t worry. We won’t be killing him,” Isaiah hissed, leaning in so his face was inches from hers. Lydia didn’t flinch, just held her ground.

That was until Darius hooked his arms around hers and hauled her away. Lydia swore vehemently, struggling with such ferocity it was like she was an animal. Wild, hysterical, and with nails wielded like claws to tear him apart. And tear the vampire apart she did. Her hands went to his arms, relentlessly slicing at him until his skin was merely fleshy and beet-red ribbon cuts. Darius cried out. It was a grimly satisfying sound. But none of that made a difference in the end. He healed almost instantly. And then Darius slammed her head into a wall, and the world spun on its heels. As she blinked the bleariness out of her eyes, Lydia was turned to face Isaiah who was approaching Stiles. The vampire cocked his head, pouting his lips out in feign concern for the boy. He lowered down to a crouch.

Isaiah reminded Lydia far too much of a spider with his lazy, assured movements. He knew full well how helpless his prey was. Stiles’s lethargic limbs were tangled and thumped uselessly against the web the vampires had spun in his mind; his struggles to break free of his trance seemed to only sew him further into the sticky lace.

“Aha, are you seeing this Lydia?” Isaiah laughed, eyes intense on Stiles’s and delirious with wonder. “Your friend is resisting our influence! Pathetically resisting, but still. I love it when they do that.”

Stiles looked wearily at the vampire, his lids still heavy but a flame licking against the glass of his eyes.

“No matter,” Isaiah muttered idly. His wolfish grin spread, cruelly curving his lips and distorting his handsome features into the deranged ones of a psychopath. Because he was one, Lydia realised. He was a complete psychopath.

Suddenly, there was a shift in the air. Power seemed to throb out of Isaiah and through the room. Pressure built, the energy was palpable and alive, and it felt too painful to even breathe. Each gasp of air Lydia took seemed to be crushed before it could even enter her lungs. Stiles gasped and struggled for a few moments longer, before finally giving in. He allowed eyes to be caught by the vampire’s gaze, and they were held there until the fire in them went out entirely. Any flicker of life was smothered. The fight was over.

Lydia wasn’t entirely sure of what had just happened, for it had been a war of the mind and not the body, but there was one thing that was completely clear. Isaiah had won.

“Our ability to enthral is very much like a blacksmith’s work,” the vampire purred, stroking a hand down Stiles’s slack face. Lydia choked back a sob. “You see, first you wear the metal, or will, down. And from there on, it becomes pliable. You can reshape and use it how you want.”

“He’s human, not a piece of metal,” Lydia said, voice barely above a whisper but still seething. If Stiles had been vacant before, he was utterly void now. When she saw his eyes, there was not even a reflection this time. Just black, dilated pupils swallowing what should have been gold.

Lydia felt so useless, so completely helpless in that moment that she wanted to cry. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t because the second she started she wouldn’t be able to stop. She would cry and cry and cry until there was nothing left, and yet she would still cry more. And she would still be as useless, as helpless as she had been before. So instead, Lydia bit down on her lip and shoved away from Darius. She levelled Isaiah with a glare.

People had said Lydia Martin was fiery, but they had never seen her while she was cold. Being near her then would like touching frosty metal- a numbing, icy kind of pain, until suddenly wintery fire broke out along your skin, setting it alight with its blue flame. So cold it became heat. Blistering, biting heat.

Isaiah had been watching her with an amused expression for a while now. He let out a haughty laugh, noticing her shift.

“That’s enough teenage angst and drama for now I think,” he announced “Let’s get down to business.”

“You kill him, I swear to god I’ll kill you,” Lydia said, voice like molten steel hissing in icy water.

“If you had been listening to what I said before, you would know I’m not going to kill him,” Isaiah chided, moving to stand beside Stiles’s chair. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, fingers digging into the skin.

Lydia gritted her teeth. Not wanting to fall into the trap of asking him more questions, giving him power again, she remained silent. Isaiah didn’t seem to notice, or care.

“He’s going to kill himself,” the vampire explained slowly, relishing each syllable. Now, it was not by choice Lydia remained silent. It was like a hand had wrapped itself around her throat, choking off the words.

“Stiles, I’m going to ask Lydia a series of questions. Hold your breath until she answers them. If she doesn’t answer, you don’t breathe.”

Stiles nodded obediently. He was just a shell now. A shell that looked like Stiles, but nothing more. Lydia didn’t love the shell. She loved what was within. But she couldn’t see that anymore. Couldn’t see him anymore. He was locked behind a door that only Isaiah had the key for. She wanted to throw up.

“I can tell this is going to be fun,” Isaiah grinned. “Shall we begin?”

Stiles took a sudden, sharp breath, and didn’t breathe in again.


	4. Summery Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a very close encounter with death and Lydia realises she can't bear the thought of losing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who gave this fic a read, or left a comment/kudos! I'm overwhelmed by how positive all the feedback has been, and I'm immensely grateful :) Some of the things you guys have been saying... just wow! I hope this next chapter doesn't disappoint. 
> 
> There are no real warnings for this chapter, I'm actually nice to the characters for once lol-I will say once again that I have NO idea how a drip chamber/IV works beyond what I read in a wikipedia article, so forgive me for the hideous inaccuracies. 
> 
> Constructive critisism/feedback is what helps to keep me going, so if anyone has the time please leave some :) I appreciate it massively. I hope you guys like the chapter!

Bizarrely, the first thing Lydia thought of was her old Barbie doll. It used to be her prized possession, with its perfectly ironed out dresses and silky blonde hair that she used to shampoo and condition at least once every week. She always kept it in hand, and set up a crib at the end of her bed where her Barbie could sleep. Now she was older, she cringed at her obsession with the doll- especially as it reinforced gender stereotypes and unrealistic standards of conventional beauty, but hey ho, that was beside the point. The point was the first day Lydia had taken it to school.

She had perfectly combed out her Barbie’s hair and picked her very best dress, proudly flaunting the doll about. It had made her glow inside and out. But then one of the other girls had yanked it out of her hands, and had jeered when she cried and tried to snatch it back. The girl had tugged out her Barbie’s hair and then thrown it in the mud. Lydia had picked up the doll, and then started to cry harder when she saw how the mud had crusted into its hair and dress, and how scratches from her scuffle with the other girl had blemished its otherwise flawless complexion.

She had tried washing the mud out in the bathroom. She had tried scrubbing the stains off the dress. She even picked up some of the ripped out hair and glued it back onto the doll’s bare scalp. Nothing had worked. The doll was ruined. Her favourite friend would never be the same again. When Lydia had shown her mom, Natalie Martin scolded her for not being more careful, and then had thrown the doll away.

It was on that day that Lydia decided on something that stuck with her the rest of her life. It was bizarre that it did, seeing as she was so young and the doll was pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But nevertheless, it stuck. Lydia swore she would never grow attached to something or someone again. Get attached, get hurt.

This had stayed true when her grandmother had died. She had been the one to give Lydia the Barbie on Christmas day. This also stayed true when her parents had divorced. And when Allison had died. And now, with Stiles. Every single time she let her guard down, let herself get attached, she or someone else got hurt.

Maybe that’s why Lydia had been so detached up until the last couple of years. Why she used to be all plastic smiles, perfect porcelain skin and deep conditioned curls. Why she used to pretend to be a doll and let others treat her that way. Because that’s what she was. She was as broken and discarded and barely held together as that Barbie doll.

Lydia couldn’t help but think of that doll now, as she watched Stiles’s chest tighten and eyes widen, his parted lips begging for the kiss of breath. She had gotten attached. And now she was paying for it.

Except she wasn’t a kid anymore, and Stiles wasn’t that Barbie doll. So while it had been something to love strongly and shortly, in the end when it had been broken it had to be thrown away. Stiles was broken much the same, but Lydia would never allow the same thing to happen to him. She could never allow the same thing to happen to him. And so she didn’t.

“I think our Banshee is ready to talk,” Isaiah beamed. He dragged a lazy finger down Stiles’s face, catching the nail on the skin. He drew blood. He looked at the fat red drop with bizarrely intense interest, then caught it with his fingertip and brought it to his lips. The finger went in and came out of his mouth with the same inappropriately jolly pop. “So, first things first... where is the Nemeton?”

“Isaiah, please stop this,” Lydia started, trying to sound calm but panic tight in her throat.

The vampire looked up from inspecting his bloodied finger. “You know the deal Lydia.”

“No, no I don’t know the deal! I don’t get the deal. How am I meant to tell you something I don’t know?” she demanded, tears burning in her eyes.

“You don’t know? Oh! That’s a real shame. Guess Stiles will just have to suffocate and die then,” the vampire said, sighing a disinterested sigh.

“I really have no clue! Don’t you get that?” Lydia cried “If I could tell you, I would!”

“Hey cool, look. He’s going red,” Isaiah pointed out brightly, ignoring her.

Lydia’s eyes flew over to Stiles again, and saw he was indeed turning a violent shade of crimson. He remained disturbingly still and silent though, his face slack. Isaiah must have been powerful, no weak spots showing in his spell.

“Please,” Lydia croaked, looking over to Isaiah again “He’s going to die. I really don’t know where the Nemeton is.”

The vampire looked back at her, passive despite her pleas.

“Please.”

Stiles let out a choked sob.

“Please!”

His body was starting to fight against the vampire’s will. It wasn’t fighting hard enough.

“Don’t let him die.”

Lydia couldn’t handle it anymore. Her panic dissolved into hysteria. Stiles continued to choke.

“Don’t let him die. _Don’t let him die.”_

Blood started to trickle out of the boy’s nose, past his now firmly sealed lips until it reached his chin. A single drop wobbled there for moment, before hitting his lap with a gooey, wet drip.

“I’ll do anything!” Lydia cried out. Isaiah’s head perked up, interest piqued. She took that as a good sign, and quickly went on. “Anything, okay? I don’t know where the Nemeton is, but there’s a chance that maybe... maybe I _can_ find it.”

“You have a lot weighing on a maybe,” Isaiah stated, sultrily narrowing his eyes and twisting up his lips.

“I _will_ find it,” she corrected, gaze impatiently flitting over to the pale Stiles.

“That’s better,” the vampire smiled, all pointed teeth “See, if you had just agreed to my proposal before, all of this could have been avoided.”

Lydia felt like bugs were trying to crawl out of her skin. “You got what you want. Now let him go.”

Isaiah clucked his tongue for a moment or two, running a pink tongue over his too white teeth, relishing Lydia in this desperate state, until finally he announced: “You can breathe now Stiles.”

Stiles let out a hoarse cry, and then his chest started to heave in juddering gasps of air. His whole body shook feverishly, and hot springs of tears burst out from the corners of his eyes. A steady stream of blood from his nose continued to flow. The coughs wrecking through his body were dry, shuddery.

Lydia knew it was selfish, but she couldn’t help but think Stiles’s pain was nothing compared to what she felt- this guilt, this sickness that was eating her up on the inside. It started as a churning in her stomach, then a searing. And then she doubled over and fell to her knees as it tore through her heart, knocking the air out of her lungs and winding her like a physical punch to the gut. She had never felt so sick, so wronged and so helpless. So utterly helpless.

Isaiah muttered something that Lydia didn’t quite hear as she dragged herself over to Stiles. There came a muffled sound, high and haughty, like a laugh. They were laughing at her. She didn’t care though. She just didn’t care. She didn’t _care._

Care. She cared for Stiles. She had to take care of him. When she reached him, she was clinical and efficient and numb as she pulled him from the tangled tubes and off the chair, into her arms. She thought she heard the vampires leave the two of them, but she didn’t bother to look. She never wanted to let Stiles out of her sight again.

He was so limp in her arms, with his head lolling and arms lank. His heartbeat was painfully steady, as were his breaths. He had passed out. Lydia’s whole body started to shake as she cried. Somehow, impossibly, she managed to drag him over to the window and prop him up against the wall. Then, grabbing a blanket from the vacant hospital bed, she wrapped her arms around him again. There they remained for what must have been hours. Curled up under the blanket, her head resting on his shoulder and his hand loosely gripping hers. His palm was slick and wet.

Lydia wondered if that was it for them. She wondered if his eyes would ever open again. It was illogical; she knew she would have screamed if he really was dead, but still. She wondered if the indent on his wrist from the tube would scar. She hoped it wouldn’t- the thought that she had hurt him, and that he would never quite be the same again, seemed unbearable.

“I think I know why it hurts the most when someone you love dies,” Lydia whispered to Stiles. He remained still and unresponsive in her arms. She went on anyway. “I think it’s because it’s permanent. Everything else can still be fixed. But this... this is permanent. Absolute. And that’s the fucking most terrifying thing in the world.”

She was cut off by a sob. She thought back to the stairwell Isaiah had caught them in. If she had jumped then, where would she be now? Would it be better than here?

“So I just need you to open your eyes, Stiles,” she murmured, turning her face and nuzzling her nose into the hollow of his neck “I know you’re okay, otherwise I would be screaming but... I... god, I don’t know. Just please wake up. Please wake up.”

Nothing happened. Hours or minutes or seconds could have passed, but Lydia wouldn’t have known. Time was a fragile, loose concept anyway. It seemed like it could be endless until suddenly there was none left at all. Maybe that’s why people always said use it wisely while you can. Lydia understood that now.

She just wished Stiles would open his eyes.

Lydia closed her eyes.

Sleep came then, sickeningly sweet.

***

Not for the first time that day, she woke snuggled up next to Stiles. This time though, there was no sleepy sense of safety or bliss. She knew exactly where they were, and exactly what kind of danger they were in. How helpless they were. So she did the only thing she could do in that moment. She pulled Stiles in closer, and leant her head into his chest.

“Wow, my life is literally a comic book movie right now,” a voice said, sleepy and thick.

“Stiles?” Lydia asked, startling. Her hand had been rested on his leg, and she quickly whipped it away like a criminal caught in the act.

“Can’t say I’m complaining though,” he went on, smiling sloppily down at her through hooded lids “I scored the hot strawberry blonde.”

“Well, _I’m_ complaining. No way am I the basic love interest,” she said, a bitter-sweet smile curving her lips “And to break the trope, you do realise that _I’m_ the one who saved _you_.”

“Eh, minor details,” Stiles shrugged, shifting her slightly from where she was still draped across his chest. Noticing this, he took her hand in his again. Lydia swallowed, and suddenly it was very difficult to look him in the eye.

“How are you feeling?” she asked tentatively, carefree tone wilting slightly.

“Extremely violated, extremely achy and extremely angry,” he listed with feigned nonchalance “Any unpleasant emotion to the extreme, really.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered, rolling in her bottom lip and biting down on it. Any light-hearted humour had effectively dissipated. “I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to have... for someone to have that kind of control over you.”

Stiles’s eyes shimmered and he swallowed thickly. “It’s peachy.”

“Peachy? Stiles, you don’t have to feel like you can’t talk to me about it,” Lydia sighed, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it, full stop,” he said through gritted teeth.

Silence fell. Lydia gave Stiles a long, hard look. She shifted away from him slightly. “That’s okay.”

Stiles let out an irritated growl, his free hand going to raggedly ruffle his hair “Urgh, no. No, it’s not. Look, I’m sorry. There’s no need for me to be a dick. I just... I _can’t_ talk about it. Not right now, anyway.”

“Don’t worry, I get it,” she said softly.

“Thank you, Lydia,” Stiles whispered, his eyes gentle on hers. And god, how she wished she could just fall into them. Into his eyes, she meant. Fall into the sunlight soaked world that existed within their shimmering depths. His irises were pools of liquid gold, and she imagined swimming in them. She imagined feeling the molten metal meld with the coppery curls of her hair, and the kiss of a warm sunset’s breeze on her skin. Stiles’s eyes were her summery heaven, and she wanted to stay there and look into them forever. But reality had other plans. Reality wasn’t a blissful vacation.

“You know, you are going to have to talk about it one day,” Lydia said slowly, easing them out of the silence. They had been staring at each other far too long.

“Talk ‘bout- about... w-hat?” Stiles stammered, clumsily tumbling from daylight fantasy into cold, hard reality.

“Talk about the fact you’re probably going to have PSTD. If you don’t talk about it, it’s going to remain unresolved. And unresolved conflicts lead to later psychological struggles- it’s the very basics of psychodynamic theory.”

Lydia knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t stop this awful, flighty, nervous energy.

“Well, at this rate it doesn’t look like I’m actually going to live to see that day come, so I’m just going to ignore the problem,” Stiles muttered, his fingers going to the slight puncture on his wrist. The skin around looked red and raw. His thumb absentmindedly rubbed at it.

“Don’t say that,” Lydia said.

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s _not_ true!”

Stiles let out an irritated huff of air. “I’ve lost nearly two litres of _blood_ , Lydia! I’ve been brain-scrambled and drugged out of my freaking mind, and it doesn’t look like there’s help coming any time soon. And I don’t think I even have the energy to stand, let alone run, so escaping is off the table.”

“Well there’s still hope. Scott will find us, he’ll find our scent,” Lydia insisted.

“Then what?” Stiles snapped back, arm arching out to accentuate his point “He’ll go up against a bunch of psychotic, overpowered vampires and get killed. And we’re talking Beast Mastery Hunter class kind of overpowered here.”

“Beast Mastery Hunter class?” Lydia frowned.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, stubbornly setting his jaw “Even if Scott and the rest of the Pack find us, we’re still dead. Well, I’m dead at least. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m dying right now.”

“Stiles, don’t you dare give up,” Lydia ordered, tightening her grip on his hand. The boy’s breath caught. “You giving up just makes their job a whole lot easier. And I don’t know about you, but I sure as shit don’t want to give them the satisfaction of that.”

Stiles looked down at her, surprised by the Banshee’s vigour. He had always known she was fire, ready to burn the whole building down around her if she didn’t get her way, but he was still surprised. But that’s what she was. A constant surprise. His everyday birthday present that he just couldn’t wait to open.

Lydia went on, her hard eyes burning into his, emerald jewels sparking up against amber stone. “So you’re just going to keep on fighting alongside me, okay? We’re going to make it through this. I know we are. We’re a team.”

“Detective duo,” Stiles murmured, a soft smile tickling the corners of his mouth. Lydia flashed him an incredulous look, and he apologetically raised his brow, then explained: “That’s what Scott always likes to call us. Okay fine, let’s do this.”

Lydia sighed with relief “Okay good. Thank _god_ , Stilinski. Who’d have thought you’d be such a pessimist?”

“I like to call it having as low expectations as possible so when reality comes by it can’t possibly be as horribly depressing as you think,” he corrected, cocking up an eyebrow.

“What a wonderful outlook on life.”

“Aw shut up.”

Lydia gave him a light thwack on the arm, and then clambered back onto her feet again. The room they were in was very similar to the one they had been in before, but this time when she checked the door it was locked. She swore softly, and rattled the handle again. Nothing.

Stiles watched her patiently from where he was still bundled up on the floor, his head drooping slightly. Despite his best efforts to cover it before, Lydia undeniably knew he was unwell. Blood loss had taken his toll on him, blanching his fair skin out to a sickly cream, making the dark circles ringing his eyes stand out stark. His limbs were trembling and thin. They hadn’t eaten anything for a good twenty-four hours now.

“Do y’reckon they’ll let us starve?” he asked, picking up her train of thought.

Lydia shook her head, continuing to prod around the room. “No. No, we’re too valuable to them. They’re probably doing this to scare us into thinking we’re dispensable, but I think eventually they’ll cave in and give us something.”

“What makes you think we’re valuable?” Stiles slurred. He was quickly growing tired. Fatigue and dizziness were symptoms of blood loss, the banshee noted. That brought her attention to the blood bags the vampires had left in the room. Well, just the one blood bag. Why only take one? It seemed bizarre that they would, but Lydia brushed the thought off. She had an idea.

“Lydia?”

“Hey, yeah sorry,” she mumbled, moving to grab some of the IV tubes “They know we’re a part of Scott’s pack, and so they know he’ll be coming after us. That means they’ve had to put a lot more time and effort into kidnapping us than they would do with any normal person. You know, why not just take some other random Banshee off the street? It means there’s an ulterior motive here. And it’s about more than just finding the Nemeton.”

“What’d you reckon it is?” Stiles questioned, sitting up. His features were wearily drawn, with sleep slanted eyes and lips sloping downwards. He was frowning, leaving thin lines like creases on his paper-white face. Lydia felt a wrench deep in her chest.

“I don’t know. Just when I asked Isaiah why he had taken us specifically, he refused to answer,” she explained.

“I just thought it was because they were using us as bait. That’s usually how I end up these lovely situations,” Stiles said with a rueful grin.

Lydia shook her head, continuing to busy about with the drip chamber and tubes, connecting one to the other. “Nah, it’s definitely not that. They’ve taken us someplace pretty remote. If we were bait, we’d be a lot easier to find. So that means they don’t want us to be found. At least until we show them where the Nemeton is.”

“You figured that all out already?” Stiles asked, eyes wide with awe “That’s... that’s really smart. _You’re_ really smart."

Lydia blushed, a red rose blossoming on her cheeks. She moved her lips to say something, but all that came out was a nervous puff of air. Stiles, noticing her hesitance, stiffened. Unspoken words and nervous electric energy crackled in the air between them. They swallowed in unison, met each other’s eyes at the exact same time.

“Well,” Stiles announced too loudly, making Lydia wince.

“Well, indeed.”

“Well, what are you doing over there?”

Lydia jumped slightly. “Oh this? _Well_ , I, uh... I figured, seeing as they left one of your blood bags out, we could hook you back up to the drip chamber. Try and get some blood back into you. That should help you feel better within a couple hours, and give us more of a chance up against them. Only if you want to, of course.”

“That’s insane,” Stiles exclaimed, scrabbling up to his feet and eagerly teetering over to her “Insane as in you’re a genius. Let’s go for it.”

“You sure?” Lydia queried, frowning at him as he climbed back into the chair from before “I don’t know if it’ll work. It could be really dangerous.”

“It’s worth a try,” Stiles said. He looked up at her with those eyes like honey trickled over warm chocolate, and Lydia could have sworn she _tasted_ the sweetness of him, as if he had kissed her with sugar smeared lips. _God, I’m such a teenage girl and I have the world’s biggest crush on Stiles Stilinski,_ she thought.

“What d’you say?” Stiles asked, and Lydia realised with mute horror she’d said it aloud. Shit.

“I said, are you okay with me not being a qualified doctor?” she replied coolly. It was an utterly pathetic recovery so of course Stilinski wasn’t buying it.

“That’s definitely not what I heard before,” he said, a sly smile spreading across his features and making him look like an entirely unholy angel.

“Yes it is.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure it’s not,” he persisted, practically glowing now.

“Shut up Stiles, or I swear to god-“

“Okay, okay, fine,” he relented, holding his arm out to her, still smirking. “Just get this over and done with.”

“You’re not scared then?” Lydia asked, attaching the final IV tube to the drip chamber and blood bag. It was pretty grim knowing it was Stiles’s blood, and she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose.

“I’m never scared when I’m with you,” he admitted softly. “I trust you, Lydia.”

Lydia swallowed, hard. A soft sensation, like the gentle brush of a butterfly’s wings, started to flutter through her veins, leaving her limbs light and bubbly and barely able to stand. She discreetly dragged the tip of her tongue along her lips, gaze dancing down to Stiles’s own. They were parted, though some of the skin of the top was still stuck to the plush bottom lip. Lydia felt the irresistible, inexplicable urge to press her own down onto them, feel their mouths move against one another, and let the world slip out from beneath their feet. Let everything else just... disappear.

But she had to shake the thought away. Hormones. She had to keep it in mind it was just her hormones. And right now, satisfying them was at the bottom of her list of priorities.

Inhaling sharply, she took the tube and angled it to where it had entered the vein before. Her uncertain eyes wandered up to meet Stiles’s resolute ones, and he nodded slightly. She gently pushed the tube under the lip of his skin. His breath hitched, but he didn’t ask her to stop. For a moment, nothing happened. And then blood started to flow back out of the bag, and into his wrist. Stiles let out an astonished laugh. It had worked.

“You’re a freaking genius, Lyd,” he exclaimed. She smiled modestly, and then moved to crouch down beside him. Her head went to rest on his shoulder.

“S’okay,” she whispered “You’re going to be okay.”

Their hands found each other once more, and stayed there, tightly clasped in a resolute grip. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe they could survive this.

But like Isaiah had said, you can’t count too much on a maybe. An unsteady, uncertain maybe. Hopeful things like a maybe are easily shattered, like glass on a tile floor.

And that’s how quickly their maybe shattered. Like glass the second it hit a tile floor. It shattered and their hopes and happy dreams were scattered, beautifully broken iridescent shards on stone.

Shattered the moment Isaiah came smashing back in through that cursed door.


	5. Twisted Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stydia defy and banter with Isaiah; the vampire is less than pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I'm not really sure what to make of this chapter- It could be considered a filler, and I'm not entirely pleased with it, but I'll see what you guys think first! There is a pretty big plot twist that I'm quite proud of though, so it's worth sticking around till the end :) Also, to make up for this lacklustre chapter, I can tell you that the next chapter is one of my absolute favourites, and it's also the longest one to date! 
> 
> Once again, massive thank you to everyone who left a kudos/response to the last chapter! I also really appreciate just having readers, so thank you everyone for just investing time in my fic :) Please feel free to leave a comment or constructive criticism, I'm always very grateful.

Isaiah swept in with his usual passive aggressive, pretentious smiles and a cockily cocked head, and sighed at the two of them.

“I’m sorry, but if I had to listen to any more of that I was going throw up,” he announced dryly.

Stiles’s hand flew up to lightly but protectively touch Lydia’s wrist. “How horrifying, we were actually having a moment of peace.”

“Hm, yes, quite,” Isaiah agreed flippantly. He moved back to casually lean against the door frame, inspecting the two of them with a sultry, invasive eye. Stiles stiffened, clenching his teeth.

He hated the swaggering arrogance of the vampire, hated how he was so loose and calm until suddenly he wasn’t. He was volatile, a Molotov cocktail waiting to blow- pretty and bubbly until shaken out of control. Stiles thought of the way the vampire’s influence had seeped into his mind before, it’s revoltingly seductive tendrils wrapping themselves around his will, sapping his energy and leaving him weak and limp and not entirely resisting. That was the worst part, he realised. Part of him had liked it.

To be enthralled was to be wrapped in a blanket of peace, worries thumping uselessly at the fluffy white, light as a feather covers- calm the most seductive thing of all. Free of concern, left to your own foggy thoughts and fantasies, why would you resist it? The most bizarre thing was that that lack of control gave Stiles the weirdest sense of _control_ , and it reminded him far too much of being possessed by the Nogitsune. He hated it.

Stiles realised Isaiah had amusedly been watching him for a while now. He shifted uncomfortably, and his formally light and protective grip on Lydia’s wrist tightened, almost as if he was begging her to protect him instead. God, when had he become such a damsel in distress? The thought made him grind his teeth, and gut out his chin determinedly.

“Scott will find us,” he ground out, meeting the vampire’s eye.

“Is that so?” Isaiah scoffed, folding his arms before pushing off the frame and slowly strolling over to them. He shifted his gaze to Lydia, grazing it up and down her thigh especially. The Banshee huffed indignantly.

“Yeah, and then you’re going to get your pompous vamp ass royally kicked,” Stiles spoke up, purposefully dragging Isaiah’s eye reluctantly back to him.

“Is that so?” the vampire said again, taking his time to lazily drawl out each syllable.

“Definitely so,” Stiles snapped back “Because I don’t know if you noticed, but Twilight? Totally out of fashion. Vamps are old school. Werewolves, on the other hand, are most definitely hot stuff.”

“The hottest kind of stuff,” Lydia affirmed with a nod.

“You hear that? The _hottest_ ," Stiles smirked “And I say this as a completely straight dude, but Scott’s got the golden abs of a Greek freaking god. Waaay better than your skinny ass. True alpha against a vampire who may or may not sparkle? The dude’s gonna floor you.”

Isaiah let the boy rant in deadly quiet, the spasm in his jaw the only indication of agitation. But that was enough for Stiles. Feeling vindicated, he levelled the vampire’s steady gaze with a glare. Big mistake. Because what was it they always said about wild animals? Never make eye contact.

Isaiah’s lips twitched, and then he lurched forward to grab Lydia by the arm. The banshee let out a cry of protest before he exposed her neck and readied to bury his teeth into it.

“W-wait!” Stiles yelped, scrambling up to stand. He made to go toward Lydia, but felt a slight tugging at his arm- of course; he was still connected to the IV.

“What was that, Stiles?” the vampire taunted “Did you say you’re going to stop being a stupid little shit and do exactly as I say?”

Stiles gave him his best withering glare. “Not exactly. Well, not at all actually. Maybe you could get your hearing tested, and we can escape in the meantime.”

Isaiah growled, straining Lydia’s neck back further. She bit down on her lip, eyes watering. Stiles hastily backtracked. “Okay shit, sorry. I’m sorry. I get it, just let her go.”

The older man ignored him, leaning his face down and nuzzling his nose into her neck. His lips came to rest at her jugular and she froze. Letting out a lazy, deep throated chuckle, the vampire dragged his eyes up to meet Stiles’s again.

“What the hell do you want?” the boy said through a swallow, mouth like sandpaper “Aren’t you fed up with antagonising us now?”

“Oh, no. You two are proving to be very entertaining. Most people would have given up by now, but you two keep fighting. It’s... invigorating,” Isaiah hummed, voice muffled from where he had his mouth pressed against Lydia’s neck.

“Oh I get it, it is _invigorating_. Physically and mentally abusing teenagers. It’s like cat and mouse, right?” Stiles retorted “Hilarious, torturous fun.”

The vampire laughed softly, deliberating for a moment. Then the next thing Stiles knew he had released Lydia, throwing her forward with enough force that she stumbled into the younger boy’s arms. Stiles quickly checked her neck, and found it to be unblemished besides the two scars from before. His thumb involuntarily lingered on her skin. Lydia steadily looked up at him, features hard and assuring.

“What do you want now, Isaiah?” Lydia asked tiredly, turning to face him, hands still lightly placed on Stiles’s arms “You didn’t come back for no reason.”

“Or he did, just to antagonise us some more. Because he’s a sadist. Obviously,” the sarcastic boy helpfully interjected. Lydia shot him a placating look, and he simmered down again.

“Why, I’m here for you. For the pleasure of your company,” Isaiah purred, spreading out his arms “And I think it’s time we finally found that Nemeton, too.”

“Oh joy, magical tree stump hunting. My favourite pastime,” Stiles sighed, looking about as perky as a lank strand of grass.

“Are you sure you’re well enough to come, Mr Stilinski?” the vampire asked in a mockingly consoling tone, facade of a caring doctor back from before “That’s a lot of blood you’ve lost.”

“Anywhere Lydia goes, I go too,” was all Stiles said, carefully unhooking himself from the IV drip. The majority of the blood in the bag was gone, so he figured that would have to do for now.

“Ah, I thought you would say that. That’s why I brought this,” the vampire pulled something out from his back pocket- two loops of metal... “Handcuffs, for our little pet human.”

“You’re kidding,” Stiles deadpanned, unable to do anything more than gape.

“If you want to come with us, this is how it’s going to have to work,” Isaiah smirked, stepping forward to latch them around Stiles’s wrists. The younger boy flinched. “Unless you’d rather stay here with your fellow humans? Chained up and drugged? Wouldn’t you just _love_ to be harvested again, Stiles?”

Stiles’s eyes widened, his mouth groping uselessly for the words that flopped dead on his tongue- the smartass Stiles Stilinski was out of witty quips. Isaiah snatched his wrist and went to secure the handcuffs around it, but not before Lydia stepped in.

“Leave him alone and I promise I’ll be as compliant as possible, okay?” she said, holding an arm up as a barrier between the two of them “No funny business, from either of us.”

Isaiah contemplated her for a moment, and then nodded, stepping back.

“Oh thank god,” Stiles breathed, hand going to his chest “I’ve gotta admit, never saw you as one for bondage Isaiah.”

That earned him a warning look from both the banshee and the vampire himself, but no further threats. Instead, Isaiah waved for the two of them to come along and follow him out the door, and they did so reluctantly, with uneasy eyes and shuffling feet.

The corridors were much the same as they had been before. Empty, ominous. In fact, Stiles realised, nothing ever seemed to change about the hospital. Time could have stood still. There were always the same ‘doctors’ prowling the halls, the same zombie-like patients strung up on plastic strings. Slowly draining, slowly dying.

“So let me get this straight,” he said as they walked “This is some kind of abandoned hospital, and those humans in there are _people_ you randomly kidnapped off the street and are currently using as your own personal blood bags. Correct?”

“Correct,” Isaiah replied shortly, turning a corner and heading down a set of stairs.

Stiles shook his head, disgusted. “You were human once. Don’t you realise how fucked up that is?”

“You _humans_ do the same to cattle and other animals alike. Keep them penned up and drugged up. Until they run dry, of course. And only then do you give them the courtesy of death. All of these horrific actions, justified by the illusion that you are the superior species,” the vampire shook his head, turning around to face them both, so he was literally going down backwards on the stairs. He was impossibly elegant, the clumsy boy noted begrudgingly. “How is this any different?”

“Hey, I tried going vegetarian once,” Stiles argued back.

“That’s what I thought,” Isaiah smiled, his lips contemptuously curved “Except, I will admit there is one difference. With vampires, there is no illusion. We are the superior species.”

“So why aren’t there more of you then?” Lydia asked, narrowing her eyes.

“’Nature needs to balance itself out’,” Isaiah muttered bitterly, turning around again “You’ll find out the answer soon enough, my good friends. But for now...”

They had reached some double doors, and the vampire straight-armed them open, and swept through.

“...Let’s find us that Nemeton.”

They had walked out of the Hospital and into its car park. It was empty, no cars whatsoever, besides a parked up SUV. Isaiah carried on walking, but Lydia and Stiles had stopped, somewhat stunned. They were outside again. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, they were outside.

It was strange how quickly winter had consumed the world, Stiles observed. Forever a cold beast, it was as insatiable in its hunger as death. It had burnt away the few remaining tree leaves with a cold blue flame and licked the ground with a frosty tongue, leaving a trail of glittering, crystalline salvia in the form of ice. Above them, the sky was opaque and marbling. Hail sliced through the air like a thousand diamond knives before shattering. The icy jewels scattered on the ground could have made Stiles rich, but as it were these riches melted in his palm. Even then, they still managed to cut into his skin with a chilling sting.

Stiles stared at his hand with detached intensity. No wonder the vampires had chosen the season of decay as host to their attack. It was as harsh and cold and deadly as them.

Isaiah was the one to break the wintery spell that had fallen. “Come along now you two.”

In a trance-like state, Stiles staggered towards his voice, still staring distractedly down at his hand. Lydia noticed this, and gave his arm a light tug.

“Stiles, you okay?” she asked gently.

“’m cold,” he whispered, still staggering. Of course he was. While Lydia had managed to retain her full winter outfit from their trip to the woods the night before, Stiles had been stripped of both his wintery jacket and hoodie since. Swallowing, she took him by the elbow, and tentatively guided him towards the vampire who stood nearby, waiting impatiently.

“I thought we agreed no funny business,” he said, face hard set with disapproval.

“I think the blood-loss, dehydration, hypothermia and starvation have more to do with it than defiance,” Lydia said through gritted teeth "Just to name a few."

The vampire frowned, looking genuinely concerned for the boy. Weird.

Stiles’s eyes wandered away, disconnected. Each breath he took shuddered through him, and every time he lifted his foot off the ground, it seemed to take forever to touch down again, and he couldn’t help but wonder with delirious humour if maybe he was floating. Of course he wasn’t, but still.

“You know what? I think I’m either high or dying,” he announced brightly, before crumpling.

Lydia lurched forward, and Stiles felt arms loop under his own and straighten him. It took a long, lethargic moment for him to realise it was not the Banshee holding him up, but Isaiah. He tried to push him away, but the sudden seeping sense of tiredness was overwhelming.

“Knew we had taken too much from him,” the vampire muttered, hauling the lank and weakly protesting human over to the SUV. Lydia followed anxiously behind.

“Why do you suddenly care so much?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Isaiah had heard their conversation before, and knew she had figured it out.

“ _Because,_ Lydia, you aren’t the only one we need,” he snarled. They had reached the van. Hail racketed off its surface, the sound of metal grating against ice setting Lydia on edge.

“So what do you need him for?” she demanded, snatching Isaiah by the arm. The vampire jerked away and inadvertently dropped Stiles as he did so. His head cracked against the concrete, and the boy made a loud, melodramatic moan.

“’Kay dude I am _not_ some doll you can just lob around,” he grumbled, attempting to scrabble back up to his feet before collapsing again. The vampire and the banshee stared disbelievingly down at him. Swallowing, Stiles went on. “And hey, on that note, why am I starting to feel like the damsel in distress all of the time? I am far too self-aware and cynical to become a part of this cliché.”

Isaiah frowned, and then went to grab him once again by the arm. Stiles swore furiously and kicked his legs out, managing to bat the vampire away. Puffing his chest out, with as much dignity as possible, he rose to his feet.

“How many times I am going to have to say it,” Isaiah growled, dusting the dirt off his shirt from his scuffle with Stiles’s shoes “No funny business. Or the handcuffs come out again.”

“Aw man, I cringe every time you bring those things up,” Stiles said, straightening himself out “You do realise how unbelievably kinky they sound, right?”

“Stiles, for the love of god, shut up,” Lydia snapped.

“Okay, okay, shutting up.”

“Why is it you two take an insufferable amount of time to get anywhere?” Isaiah hissed, throwing open the van door.

“I’m not one for haste when it comes to assisting my kidnappers,” Stiles stated. His voice slurred slightly, tiredness softening the sarcastic edge. Lydia wasn’t wrong when she had said that the whole experience was taking its toll on him.

“Isaiah, you’re going to need to give us some food or water soon,” she pointed out.

“Get in the van,” he snarled in response.

“That or we die,” she went on, knowing full well she had some leverage “And you can’t let that happen, can you? To _either_ of us.”

“Get in the van,” he simply repeated.

“Why’d you take Stiles too? Why do you want to find the Nemeton?”

“ _Stop_ asking questions, _get_ in that van _now_ , or I swear to god I’ll-“

“Or you’ll what? You can’t hurt us.”

Isaiah’s nostrils flared, his eyes searing. A switch had been flipped. Any remnant of his usual sadistic playfulness was gone. And that’s when it happened. The looming sky above seemed to darken, and a deep, low gurgle sounded from within its stormy grey, churning depths. The air became thick and clammy. Stifling. It was a similar sensation to the one Stiles had felt before, when the vampire had first been invading his mind, except now it somehow felt darker. He couldn’t move at all. The invisible hands curled around his neck clamped tightly shut, cutting off his access to air entirely. He let out a choked sob.

“We’re no longer playing games,” Isaiah hissed, grabbing Lydia and holding her in his feverish grip. She was struggling for air much the same as Stiles. “You promised me you wouldn’t disobey. You _promised_. And now you’re going to pay.”

When the vampire slammed Lydia’s head into the car door, and she dropped to the floor, Stiles screamed. It was a hoarse, broken sound. It ripped through him, and left only hollowness behind. A hollowness that seemed infinite, despite being within the confines of his chest. His uncomprehending eyes were wide as he stared upon the unconscious strawberry blonde.

Paralysed still by inexplicable forces, he could only watch as Isaiah nonchalantly hauled Lydia’s flopping body into the van’s passenger seat. It was the first time Stiles noticed there was a driver, another vampire he didn’t recognise, who sneered at the still girl gleefully. Stiles felt another sob wrench itself from his lungs.

Isaiah turned back to him with an exaggerated swing of his foot, a slow smile spreading. Stiles felt the ghost of a comeback on his lips, but couldn’t bring himself to say it. He shook his head frantically when the vampire began to advance again, and tried to take a step back but Isaiah had already clamped his hands down on his shoulders.

“I’m sick and tired of you two and your petty little defiances,” he spat, heavy huffs of air coming out from his nose.

“It won’t happen again. _Promise_ ," Stiles said through gritted teeth.

“Stop lying,” Isaiah hissed, eyes wild with fury.

“Listen dude, how do you expect us to fully comply when you literally kidnapped and tortured us?” Stiles snapped back, angry now too “Don’t you get it? We don’t _want_ to help you. We know that whatever you need us for is no good. And we’d rather die than give it to you.”

Isaiah laughed harshly, lifting a shaky hand to point in Stiles’s face. “You think you’re smart. You think you’re so smart with your _witty_ quips and sarcastic remarks and simply _insufferable_ stubbornness. So if you’re so smart, you’ll listen to this.”

The vampire jabbed at his chest with frantic finger, and continued to jab viciously with each venomous word.

“I will kill your whole family. I will kill all of your friends. I will kill every single last person in that hospital, and in your stupid town Beacon Hills. And I’ll do it all starting with her-“ he motioned to Lydia “-if you don’t do as I say.”

“But you need-“

“I don’t need her as much as I need you. Banshees are replaceable. You, unfortunately, are not. And so when the time comes, and you’ll know when it comes, you will do as I say. _Willingly_ , no need for the enthral. Because if you don’t, we’ll kill them. We’ll kill all of them.”

The jabbing stopped, but Stiles still felt the impact shake through him. Sucking in a shuddery breath, he nodded. His throat was tight.

“Good,” Isaiah said, sliding his charming grin back in place.

In that moment, Stiles could have sworn the vampire was the devil wearing the face of angel. He was twisted, demented, ethereal. Indescribably beautiful, uncomprehendingly evil. And broken beyond repair.

Sheriff Stilinski had always said that people were merely victims of circumstance. Stiles hated the saying. It gave people a reason not to take any responsibility, gave them a reason to kill and point a bloody finger at someone else. But Stiles couldn’t help but think of that saying now. Something had happened to Isaiah. Something unthinkable. Something that had broken him beyond repair. But what?

“What do you need me for?” Stiles asked quietly.

“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid,” Isaiah smirked “Not right now, anyway.”

“Cut this mystery bullcrap, okay? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all of this,” Stiles said, quivering beneath the vampire’s grip.

“But the mystery is what makes it all so delicious. What keeps you turning the page, what keeps you on the edge of your seat,” the other man drawled, nails digging into Stiles’s skin. He was hiding behind an indifferent, sardonic armour now, the boy realised. He recognised it simply because it was an armour he often wore himself. “I’ve lived too long now, Stiles. Don’t resent me for these small pleasures.”

“We’re people, not some pieces of your game,” he spat out “You said it yourself. This isn’t a game anymore.”

“Oh but it is,” Isaiah sneered, leaning in “Which is why I’m going to do this.”

Before Stiles could protest, the vampire caught his eye and any concern he felt fizzled away like sweet-sour sugar on his lips. His body started to slide, and Isaiah’s hold on his shoulders was the only thing keeping him from succumbing to the sleepiness slinking through his veins and falling to the ground. From a faraway place, he heard a hollow cry. Maybe it was him.

“Don’t worry too much friend,” his captor purred, and immediately the crying stopped “This is just a little more incentive for you to do as I say. And to make this whole thing a lot more fun.”

“Fun,” Stiles agreed dreamily.

“Okay, so listen here,” the vampire continued, sinister smirk spreading so far it stretched his lips out thin “I know how you feel about the Banshee. And how she feels about you. It’s obvious. But you two, being the ridiculously angsty teens that you are, haven’t done anything about it.”

Even in his trance-like state, Stiles felt a pang of surprise. This must have registered on his face, because Isaiah was practically shuddering with cruel anticipation as he went on.

“So you’re going to act like you don’t love her. You’re never going to say it; you’re never going to spell it. There will not be a single way for you to tell her how you really feel. And when she starts to hate you, starts pushing you away, there will nothing you can do about it. She’ll hate you, you’ll hate yourself. And that’ll be the end of it. Unless...”

“Unless I do as you say,” Stiles said, blinking sleepily but his mind more alert than ever.

“Unless you do as I say,” the vampire agreed “Then I can lift the spell, remove the enthral, and you two can have your epic, pathetic romance. How does that sound?”

“That sounds good,” Stiles whispered. His throat was tight, too tight.

“Let’s play this out for a couple of days then, just so it starts sinking in,” the vampire grinned, clapping a cool hand against the other boy’s neck in what would have been a friendly gesture had it not been a simmering threat.

Stiles wanted to cry. Where was his dad? Where was Scott and the rest of the Pack? He needed help. He needed _help._

He had been lying to himself before when he said all he felt was hollowness in his chest. There wasn’t hollowness. If anything, there was too much. Too much of whatever it was, and it filled him to the brim. It was overwhelming. His heart was hot and swollen and heavy, too big for the cage of ribs it was trapped within. It was going to burst.

It hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt so much he wanted to scream until his throat was bloody and raw, and cry until it felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore. Instead, he was silent. Instead, he was still.


	6. Hello And Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles struggles with the fallout of his dispute with Isaiah; Lydia leads the vampires to the Nemeton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so much for all the kudos/comments/reads for the previous chapters. It's always massively appreciated, so I like to write these little thank you's at the start every chapter. If you guys have any more thoughts, I'd love to hear them :)
> 
> In case anyone was wondering, I will (hopefully) be posting a new chapter every Wednesday, meaning updates will be consistent. However, it does take me a long time to write, re-write, proof-read, edit and post every new chapter, so please be patient with me if I fall behind! Each one averages around 3000-4000 words, and sometimes even more (this one is nearly 5000!) and I do unfortunately have my real life obligations to tend to as well. 
> 
> Anyway, I'll let you read the chapter now lol- as I said before, it's one of my favourites :) Much angst, romance and drama! I hope you enjoy :)

Stiles was numb. Inside and out, he felt nothing. He figured feeling would eventually have to return to him. He wished it wouldn’t. He hated it. He enjoyed the emptiness that came with its absence, enjoyed giving up. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing there was nothing else he could do, in allowing himself to rest and letting the pain going dull. If Lydia were with him, she would have scolded him. But she wasn’t, so she couldn’t. She was the most painful thing of all.

He could hear her, on the other side of the van wall. She was speaking quietly, but he could still hear her. Of course he could. Her voice was his call. They were mere millimetres apart, yet still separated. He was in the boot of the van and she was sat at the front, in the passenger’s seat, telling the vampires where they needed to go to find the Nemeton. He wasn’t quite sure how she was doing it. It probably was some kind of banshee mystique thing.

Stiles propped his legs up on the seat and gathered them to his chest, leaning back so his head rested on the wall. He tried closing his eyes, and imagining she was there beside him. He couldn’t. Everything around him was cold and she had always been warm. But seeing as he likely would never feel her touch again, imagining was all he could do.

People often said numb was what followed the blow, and Stiles figured that to be true. He was pretty sure he had gone into shock. His body was shaken from weight loss, and battered and bruised maroon. The vampires had relented briefly to give him water, but that was all. Dread and acid were the only things that rolled about in his stomach. But that was okay. If he ate, he’d probably throw it all up anyway.

Out of nowhere, the boy started to cry. The other vampires in the van looked at him with a disinterested eye. Isaiah flashed him a triumphant grin, and he swallowed back the tears once more.

He just couldn’t believe it. He could not believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. He had been such an idiot, never taking the opportunity. If he had overcome his little doubts, gone deaf to the parasitic whispers in his ear, he could have at least had a chance to be with her. And now he never could. There was a distinct difference between a possibility and a certainty. One was set in stone and the other was unknown. He’d rather take the unknown above the absolute any day. The absolute was the most terrifying thing of all.

It was absolute Lydia would never love him. It was absolute he could never tell her how he felt. It was all absolute, and that was absolutely terrifying.

And so it was the missed opportunity that twisted him up inside the most. He could have taken it, but instead he had let it slide. He had taken her out on that night just a day or two ago with the plan of asking her to the Winter Solstice Ball. But he never got chance to. And now he never could, and she would never know. She would go cold now, thinking he never loved her when he did. He always did.

Ever since that day in third grade, he had loved her. When he saw her for the first time and the world around just went still. In his eyes, she had been the only thing really alive in that room. And even now, that remained true. Without Lydia Martin, everything else in Stiles’s world was pale and dead. She was the sunlight that brought life to it all. She poured out her golden glow and suddenly bland colours were rich, he got drunk looking at her lips, and the feelings he had for her were the headiest drugs of all.

Living the life she gave him made him feel like maybe it wasn’t worth giving up after all. Maybe he should keep on fighting. Maybe he could keep on fighting. Maybe what he felt for Lydia was worth fighting for. Then it occurred to him. Not maybe. Absolutely.

Stiles dragged his eyes up to look at Isaiah, and set his jaw.

***

After being rudely awakened from her head-trauma induced slumber, Lydia had been forced to sit and direct a grumpy vampire to the Nemeton for the past hour. The undead woman was about as lively as her pulse, and had a cold demeanour to match her even icier touch. Instantly, Lydia had hated her. She was commanded by Isaiah, after all. There had to be something wrong with you if you voluntarily put yourself under his thumb.

Lydia felt a pinch at her skin, and she opened her eyes a slither to glare at the woman who had just inflicted the pain. “What now?”

“Where to next?” she demanded. They had arrived back in Beacon Hills fairly promptly, and were now tracking through the woods in the SUV. At one point, they had stopped off at an abandoned warehouse, for god knows what, but had quickly gotten back on track.

“I would be able to tell you if you allowed me to concentrate for just a second,” she snapped back, closing her eyes once more. Squeezing them together, she cocked her head slightly, listening intently. The low, echoing groan of trees resounded in her head, and a tinkling breeze blew through it too. They were the sounds of nature, the sounds of the Nemeton. She just managed to grasp onto one of the whispers being carried by the mystic wind.

“Take the next right,” she murmured, voice monotone and detached as she allowed her mind to sink further into her psychic trance “From there on we’ll have to go on foot.”

“Are you sure?” the woman asked, narrowing her eyes. She didn’t seem to fully believe in the Banshee’s abilities and in fairness neither did Lydia herself. They were loosely defined, and didn’t make a lot of sense- but at least they were working. She knew they were going in the right direction.

“I’m sure,” was all she said, still mesmerised. She had to be sure. If she wasn’t, then Stiles would pay for her mistake. Lydia couldn’t bear the thought of that.

She hadn’t seen him since being thrown in the car, but she was pretty sure something was wrong. The wall between them was thin enough that she would be able to hear his voice, but there was nothing besides the occasional chatter between the vampires. No sarcastic comments, no dry quips. He could have been knocked out again, and that would explain his silence. But the Banshee had a feeling that it was something more. Something bad.

Lydia shook it out of mind, not wanting to linger on _that_ kind of thought. This whole experience was taking its physical and mental toll. Days seemed to stretch on horribly long, positivity became delusional and pessimism was simply facing the truth. Her thoughts felt sticky and cluttered, utterly intangible. She needed food, she barely had enough water. Sleep deprivation had wrapped her world in cotton wool. She was surprised she could direct the vampire woman at all.

The only thing that kept her going was knowing that if she gave up, Stiles would be on his own. And she couldn’t allow that. He had helped her so much, and she was going to make sure that debt didn’t go unpaid.

The moment he had come into her life, and she had seen him, _actually_ seen him, her world had started to shift in a way she hated at first. He saw what she wanted no one else to see, told her words that she didn’t realise were so important until spoken aloud. He saw that there was a person hidden within the pretty red-headed shell, and he told her that he valued that person above all else. And that had changed everything.

Before him, it was like Lydia had been living in a world of just sad, cold blue. And then he showed her that there were different colours, and initially she had been scared. She wanted to cling on to what she knew. But she couldn’t help but stare at these new colours. These reds and greens and golden hues. With his clumsy hand, Stiles Stilinski had painted a world Lydia never realised could be so bright, so much wider than the one she knew. It was a beautiful, splattered mess of colours. And she loved it.

She loved losing her old self in it, and finding someone new. Someone who had always been there, just hidden so deep within herself she had forgotten they existed. She loved being that person. She loved being smart and fiery and kind, instead of coldly aloof.

Stiles had helped her find her real self, and she had never said it, but she was grateful. She was glad she had let him into her life, and allowed him to break down her walls.

But from the way things were going, it looked like she might never have the chance to tell him how grateful she really was. So Lydia decided on something. As soon as she could, she had to tell him. She had to tell him how she felt, tell him the truth. Let him know that she loved him, and hope that he loved her too.

***

Stiles startled when the van came to a sudden stop, having been deeply wrapped up in his thoughts. He had found there was a certain sadistic, addictive pleasure in thinking about how he was going to kill Isaiah. He knew the thoughts were dark and he was repulsed by them, but at the same time they tasted too delicious to stop indulging in more.

But he didn’t have much more time to brood, anyway. The van door swung open, and suddenly the world was saturated in too-bright white light that stabbed into Stiles’s eye. Wincing, a hand flew up to cover his face. It had been pretty dark in the van, and his vision needed time to adjust. Time that the vampires weren’t going to let him have, of course.

Someone grabbed him by the arm, and he was carelessly hauled from his seat and thrown into a bright world he couldn’t quite see. His side slammed down into the ground, and the impact shuddered through him, clamping his jaw shut, grinding his teeth together. He let out a moan, curling himself outwards as the pain worked its way through his spine. Blinking furiously, he finally managed to get the fuzzy world to dissolve back into focus.

They were in Beacon Hills- the Preserve, to be exact. Having spent his entire childhood there, he knew that without a doubt. His fingers curled into the familiar earth, and he relished the rich smells that wafted out of the crushed leaves and damp dirt.

Pushing off his side, hands still braced against the earth, he looked out. Though he had changed, older and battered and bruised now, the woods were still much the same. Stripped of their leaves by the winter’s harsh breeze, the bare trees moaned and towered above. Their dry branches scratched against their rough bark, an eerie noise that he knew all too well. Beneath his hands, the earth was hardened by cold- an insidious kind of cold, seeping up through his fingertips and into his bloodstream. Stiles shivered, and stood up.

“Where’s Lydia?” was the first thing he said, looking around. He didn’t have to look long, because the strawberry blonde had already barrelled into him and the next thing he knew he was wrapped in her embrace.

Initially, he stiffened, fully aware of Isaiah’s spell. Did it stop him from having physical contact? Or were there still brief moments of physical contact from her that he could steal? Apparently, there were. And the relief of that realisation was so strong, he pulled her in closer and never wanted to let go.

“Hey,” he murmured into her auburn hair, pressing his cheek into its silken waves and tucking his chin in.

“Hey,” she whispered back, her face buried in the crook of his neck. Closing his eyes, Stiles relished the feel of her delicate, rosy nose pressed against the skin, which pleasantly prickled in response.

This was how it should be. He should be with her, and she should be with him, and they should have spent the rest of the early evening embraced, drenched in the dipping sun’s midnight blue and violet hues. The glittering stars should have gleamed down on them, and they should have smiled right back up- when they weren’t stealing glances at one another, of course. But life didn’t care for what should or should be. It just demanded you face reality, instead of blissful possibility.

“Where to now, little banshee?” a sultry voice asked. The strawberry blonde startled, and the voice’s owner chuckled softly.

Lydia looked up at Stiles apologetically, then pulled away to face the woman speaking. She was attractive, as all the vampires seemed to be. She had an inky, silky slip of hair and eyes the most bizarre shade of green. They were cold like frosted emerald, unlike Lydia’s much warmer irises- hers were enriched by sunlight soaked earth tones. They reminded Stiles of a forest, a forest he happily lost himself in every time he caught her gaze.

“Not much further from here, maybe a half an hour walk,” Lydia stated.

“Half an hour?” the vampire spat, incredulous “Why can’t we just take the car?”

“The Nemeton is a place connected to nature. If we were to interfere with human technology, it wouldn’t be good,” the Banshee explained.

“You better be right about this, my sweet Lydia,” Isaiah said, stepping out from the van. The other vampires, maybe five or six excluding the woman who stood opposite the teens, followed behind him- it had been a pretty big SUV, after all. Darius was one of the vampires with them, Stiles noted bitterly.

“My sweet Lydia?” he echoed disbelievingly. Normally, he would say something scathing in response but, with Isaiah’s threats still vivid and burning hot on his cheeks, he remained silent.

“Anything wrong with that, Mr Stilinski?” the vampire asked sweetly, eyes mockingly naive.

Stiles felt the comeback curl up on his tongue, and there was a deep thrum inside his stomach. But instead he simply swallowed, shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing wrong.”

Isaiah looked satisfied, smirk spreading along his lips. Lydia’s eyes immediately flew up to Stiles, her concern raw and clear. He didn’t dare look at her. He just dipped his head down, and started to play with the edge of his shirt resting on his hip.

“Let’s go,” the emerald-eyed woman announced, folding her arms “After you, Banshee. And you too, human. You’re with me.”

Isaiah chuckled darkly. “I hope you’re not thinking about taking a bite out of him, Melanie.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Melanie drawled, contemplating eyes grazing up and down Stiles, who shifted uncomfortably. She and Isaiah stalked over and grabbed the two teenagers roughly.

“Lead the way then Lydia,” Isaiah sneered, shoving her forward unceremoniously “We’ll be right behind you. With Stiles in hand, of course. Just in case you were thinking about escaping.”

Lydia stumbled slightly, but managed to regain her composure with a sense of dignity. Only she seemed to possess the ability to look like royalty even when humiliated or bullied. Stiles looked at her with pride swelling in his chest. She turned back to face him, eyes worried but features set determinedly.

“Give me a moment,” she told them, reluctance clear in her voice. The vampires around fanned out, all watching her expectantly. Something cruel flickered in each and every one of their expressions. They thought she wouldn’t be able to do it. Stiles couldn’t wait for them to be proved wrong.

Lydia closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Her brow twitched slightly, and she tipped her head to the side, listening intently. A moment or two passed. And then three. The vampires’ lips twitched, amused. Then suddenly the Banshee’s eyes snapped open again.

“That way,” she said, pointing to her left. A grumble rippled through the small crowd. Stiles smiled, and nodded when her earnest eyes flew over to his.

“Interesting,” Isaiah murmured, moving forward to take Lydia by the arm again. She twisted away, instead stalking ahead in the direction they needed to go. Stiles shook his head, smiling ruefully. Isaiah had forgotten that she was fiery. The younger boy felt a tugging at the arm he had forgotten was in Melanie’s grip, and he was pulled forward with the surge of vampires following in Lydia’s wake.

The ground was slick with ice and decaying leaves beneath his feet, and they slipped on the loose earth a couple of times. Whenever they did, Melanie’s rough hands yanked him back up to a stand. The vampire’s cloy, cold smell had laced itself with the hearty woodland’s scent, making a revoltingly sugary earth perfume- like frosted moss soaked in cinnamon blood. Stiles sucked in his bottom lip, resisting the urge to retch. From there on, he breathed in and out of his mouth.

“I know you guys aren’t idiots,” he started, through heavy breaths “But how do you expect Scott not to find us here? The Pack will have noticed we’re missing by now, and our scent will be everywhere.”

“You’re right. We aren’t idiots,” Melanie agreed pleasantly “That’s why we drained you partially of your blood.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked slowly, apprehension curling up in his gut.

“Didn’t you notice we had taken one of the bags from your lovely blood donation, or that the little Banshee had been bitten?” she inquired sweetly- he immediately thought back to Lydia’s punctured neck on the first night they had been kidnapped, and the missing blood bag out of the two they had drained from him.

“You’re using them for our scent,” he whispered, realisation painting his expression white with dread.

“Mmm you are the clever one, aren’t you?” Melanie hummed, curling her finger up in a lock of his hair. His throat tightened. “Yes, we’re using your scent. We dropped off at an abandoned warehouse earlier and drenched the place in your blood for Scotty to find-” Stiles flinched, and she noticed “-a delicious prospect, don’t you think?”

“Repulsive is the word coming to mind,” he said through gritted teeth. At least Scott was safely away from them. For now, anyway.

“Well, for a vampire like myself, it was very hard to leave that place without a least one taste,” she sighed, unwinding the curl of his hair from her finger “It was even harder not to take a bite out of your Banshee.”

Stiles felt fear tug at his chest, and he choked back a sob. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt her. Not if I did as Isaiah says.”

“Not just as Isaiah says,” the woman hissed, shoving him forward “As we all say. But trust me, it wouldn’t hurt her. The bite of a creature born out of the blood of an Incubi is very pleasant...” she trailed off, her invasive eye sliding across his body once more, before coming to a rest at his neck “...would you like a try?”

“Over my dead body,” Stiles snarled, before quickly adding “And yes, I’m well aware of the irony.”

Melanie smiled at him, seductive and slow. “But you know Stiles... if I were to ask you to come with me to the darker parts of the wood, and let me bite you... you would have to do as I say, correct? To save Lydia, of course. Because otherwise we’ll tear her apart.”

His head whipped around to face the vampire, eyes wide and filled with barely contained horror. She giggled. It was a sinisterly sweet, tinkling sound- like the sing-song voice of that broken doll you always find in horror movies.

“Well then, seeing as we’re on such a nice woodland stroll...” she began, giggling even more hysterically.

“Please don’t,” Stiles whispered, eyes desperately searching for Lydia’s strawberry blonde head. She was about fifty metres ahead, red hair standing out against the trees like the first flame of a forest fire.

“...Why don’t we go find ourselves a secluded spot, where I can take a lovely, deep bite of that simply irresistible neck?”

The other vampires were nowhere near, all stood around Lydia. Melanie and him had fallen well behind. He half-wondered if that’s what she had wanted to happen- him all alone. That way he'd be a lot easier to drag away unnoticed. Swallowing, and with his heart a heavy, fluttering thing in his chest, Stiles shoved the vampire woman and ran away as fast as he could.

He opened his mouth, sucking in a stuttering, shuddering breath, and readied to scream. And then a hand slammed down on his lips, cutting off his cry of protest. A second hand wrapped around his chest. He squirmed furiously against the hold, knowing full well he was being hauled off to his death. Melanie had gone rogue. Regardless of the other vampires needing him, he knew she was going to kill him. There was no getting out of this.

And then upon this realisation, the most bizarre thing came into Stiles’s head. He thought about the last thing he had said to Lydia.

_“Hey,” he murmured into her auburn hair._

Just a greeting, a short and sweet and simple greeting. A cruel irony. This hello was his goodbye.

Then he thought about Lydia’s eyes, and how he had probably seen them for last time, too. He remembered them being determined on his, and how they had warmed him through and through. He remembered her cascading curls setting the night alight with flame; he remembered her stance, always resolute and unashamed.

He would remember all of these last things about her, but she will have put them down as passing glances, trivial details, never knowing their true weight.

No. No, Stiles couldn’t let this be the end. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let himself die. Anything he had said about giving up before was a lie. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t peaceful. There was nothing worse than knowing a stupid ‘hey’ would be his goodbye. And so he had to make sure it wasn’t his goodbye. He had thought Lydia was worth fighting for, and now he had to fight.

Stiles’s hands went to grapple at the wrists wrapped around his body, and tore viciously in an attempt to pry them away. He succeeded partially, and Melanie released his mouth with a hiss, but before he had chance to wrench his torso away, her arms swung and slammed against his chest. Pain split through his lungs, wrenching a hoarse cry from his throat. The impact kicked his legs out from beneath him, and he hurtled towards the ground, hitting it with a muffled thump. Another cry. It echoed through the forest, far and wide. Up ahead, all the vampires snapped their heads towards its source.

“Son of a bitch,” Melanie hissed, ensnaring her fingertips in his hair and yanking his head savagely back, exposing his neck. She dove for it. Stiles let out shout, scrabbling desperately about. He felt her horribly damp lips touch upon the skin, felt the cloying, muggy scent of death prickling the hairs on his neck. And then suddenly the hand holding him down was gone, and he was left sprawled across the forest floor.

There came a guttural, feral yowl, and then a wet sound like bloody slabs of meat slapped down on a china plate. Hands looped around him again, and his thoughts flew to Lydia. That was until he realised how cool the fingertips roughly coasting the skin of his neck were.

“Melanie, don’t do this,” he heard Isaiah shout; raw panic bleeding into the cracks of his usually calm, assured tone. Fresh wounds latticed his face, but were healing as quickly as they had been inflicted.

“I have to,” Melanie answered, her voice from a mouth resting just beside Stiles’s head. He could feel her shaking feverishly, heart pounding through her chest and into his back. A warm stickiness trickled down his forehead.

“But we worked so hard for this!” Isaiah cried, whole body quivering as if all of his bones were able to snap.

“No, no you don’t understand,” Melanie whimpered, shaking her head “We can’t free him. He’s worse than the devil, Isaiah. There’s hell, and then there’s him. After all of the things he did to me... to you... why would you let him out?”

Stiles blinked slowly, as if his eyelashes were sticky. Who the hell were they talking about? Was this what they had been trying to do? Is this what they needed the Nemeton for?

Isaiah frantically shook his head, venom laced with panic in every word. “We’ll die without him, Melanie. Evil or not, he makes us stronger, makes us better. What is a pack without its leader?”

“Bullshit,” the vampire woman spat “We’re not filthy werewolves. You’re brainwashed, just like the rest of them.”

“No, you’re delusional,” the man snarled, taking a threatening step forward “We’re a dying breed without him.”

The other vampires suddenly stepped out from the depths of the woods, flanking their leader. Or temporary leader, Stiles realised. Whoever they were talking about was the real person in charge. Suddenly, a familiar strawberry blonde emerged, and let out a startled sob. She started towards him, but Isaiah snagged her wrist, tugging her back.

“Stiles!” she cried.

“Lydia, don't,” he choked out hoarsely, shifting in the vampire’s hold “She’ll kill you.”

“Melanie, if you do this, there will be no more second chances for you,” Isaiah spoke up, cutting off Lydia who had let out a dry cry “The moment that boy is dead, you will be too.”

“How can you be so foolish?” Melanie hissed, hands trailing up Stiles’s chest until they came to a rest at his neck. They curled around it, but didn’t tighten their grip. “Have you never heard of Stockholm syndrome?”

“This is not the same thing,” Isaiah replied smoothly. But the dark flicker across his face was a dead give-away.

“Yes it is. He hurt you, Isaiah,” the woman sobbed “But he made it seem like an act of kindness every time he didn’t torture us, or kill one of our families. None of us asked for any of this, and he still forced it down our throats until we started to choke.”

“That’s not true.”

“He deserved to die,” Melanie whispered, voice dropping to deadly quiet now. Her fingers tightened their grip on the human. “And I’m sorry Stiles, but you have to die now, too.”

Stiles went stiff as she buried her teeth into his neck, and the world dipped into darkness, black swallowing all other colour until it was just one endless swirl. He hit the ground, heavy and cold as a stone. Sharp needles still were buried deep into his ever-paling neck. His eyes rolled back and forth, marbles spinning in an earthquake’s shake, and his back arched outwards with the pain.

Then suddenly he felt a sleepy, seductive calm seep into his veins. The life that he had clutched so tightly to his chest before began to spill out of his clumsy fingertips. He watched it happen with detached, delirious interest. A deep throb still came from his neck.

Everything that had unfolded couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds.

Then a flash of light blinked across his vision. In the black night, he could have sworn it was a star. But then he realised it kind of looked like fire. Lydia. It was Lydia, racing towards him, his midnight star. The one he wished upon as he fell into deathly sleep, and life became but a dream.

Strangely though, Lydia’s panic-stricken cries weren’t the last one’s he heard. No, instead he heard Melanie. She whispered to him, words soft like a coo: “I’m sorry. You just don’t know what he can do.”


	7. No Matter Where He Might Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles's life hangs in balance; Lydia finds herself hurt beyond repair, in a way she couldn't possibly expect. The search for the Nemeton finally comes to its end, but things are far from over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap! This chapter took a long, long time to proof-read and I'm still not entirely sure it all makes sense (grammatically and plot-wise), so if you guys are unsure, please ask! There's a cliffhanger that will probably make you go wtf at the end, that's all I'm going to say.
> 
> Also, for those who are wondering, I do update this fic every Wednesday and I have actually written up to Chapter 11 now. I did a word count and it's at 48'000 words, with still a few chapters left to go! Basically, there won't be a shortage any time soon :)
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who's ever given this fic a read, comment or kudos! It means so, so much to me. My confidence as a writer has massively grown, and reading what you guys have said always makes me grin like a maniac :)
> 
> So, once again, thank you.

The first thing Lydia realised was that she couldn’t breathe. All of the air had left her body with a low, hollow gasp. A shaking hand slowly went to her mouth. She started to move, move towards the figure lying on the cold grass, the only still thing in a world that had descended into chaos.

Off in the distance, the far-off distance, Lydia could hear Melanie’s screams as she was ripped from Stiles’s body and torn apart. Lydia knew she should have been disturbed by the screams. Instead, she was pleased. When she finally reached Stiles, she collapsed by his side. His eyelashes fluttered. Red blood was stark against his white skin.

Another sob wrenched itself from Lydia’s lungs. She gathered him to her chest, pulling him close, and pressed her forehead to his. Oozing, sticky warmth spread across her clothes where they brushed his shredded neck.

“Stiles,” she whispered, a fumbling hand going to cup his gaunt cheek. He was dying. Melanie had buried her teeth into his neck, and drank from him until she was giddy, and now, because of her, he was dying.

Stiles’s eyes rolled beneath the lids, and she saw his forehead crease with strain, but they didn’t open again. His face was wet with tears. She brushed her chin against his cheek, before lightly pressing her mouth to the skin. She had kissed him. And he had felt so soft beneath her lips, and it was then she knew they were meant to fit.

Suddenly, arms came around her, tearing her and Stiles apart. Lydia swore viciously, whirling around to see her captor. It was Isaiah. She snarled at him, before attempting to scramble back to the boy.

“Stop interfering,” the vampire snapped, eyes locking with hers. His enthral immediately set in, and Lydia felt the fight in her go out. She nodded compliantly, but on the inside she was screaming, going out of her mind. At this distance, she could see how pale Stiles really was. In the dark, dark night, shrouded by trees, he was as stark and white as a ghost. He was haunting both Lydia and these woods.

“What are you doing?” she demanded when Isaiah crouched down besides the boy. The vampire bit into his wrist, drawing blood, before pressing it to Stiles’s lips.

“Our blood has the ability to revive,” he replied, intently watching the younger boy as he started to swallow and drink.

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked, eyes wide and uncomprehending, unable to look up from Stiles. Stiles, who was stirring. Stiles, who was alive. He was alive. He was _alive_. Isaiah sat back, satisfied. A surprisingly affectionate hand went to the boy’s throat. It had healed.

“For every life we take, we are able to provide it to someone new,” he explained calmly.

Lydia swallowed thickly. “So... so he’ll be...?”

“He’ll be fine,” Isaiah said softly. Lydia looked at him then, finally able to tear her eyes from the pale boy. It was the first time it occurred to her that maybe Isaiah wasn’t totally irredeemable. There was a deep remorse in his eyes, darkening his brow and wilting his lips. Maybe the vampires weren’t the bad guys here. Maybe whoever they were trying to free was. Sometimes good people do evil things.

“Who’d you kill?” she asked him quietly. Isaiah looked up, startled. “If you have to kill one person to save another, who’d you kill to save Stiles? Do you even remember?”

Stiles sat up suddenly, coughing heavily and his whole body shuddering. Lydia’s attention immediately flew over to him, all thoughts of Isaiah brushed aside. She scrambled over to the barely alive boy again.

“Stiles, _Stiles_ , oh my god,” Lydia breathed, saying his name like it was a gasp for oxygen. It may well have been. She inhaled deeply, her lungs warming and swelling with fresh breath. Breath he had given her, just by being alive.

“Really tired of being the damsel in distress now,” he croaked out. A bright smile broke out across the strawberry blonde’s features, and she slammed herself into his weakly outstretched arms.

“Hey, Lyds,” he whispered, folding into the embrace.

“You know, saying you don’t want to be the damsel doesn’t negate the fact you are,” she replied, grinning mischievously.

“Shut up,” he laughed softly, equally delirious with relief.  

Biting down on her bottom lip in an attempt to smother her grin, Lydia pulled back so they were looking at one another again. She stared at him and he stared right back. Now, she couldn’t resist the smile tugging at her lips. And then she started to lean in. The whole world went still. Still, with only their hearts beating.

Her hands shifted so they rested in the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer. She dragged her teeth back against her lip, releasing the plump skin. Despite being so cold only a moment before, Stiles's skin was hot under her touch. Hot and silky like supple wax, and she was the candle flame warming him- and then the next thing she knew they had melted into the kiss.

It was a brief kiss, made only of moving lips.

Stiles stiffened, like he had the first time, and Lydia had been anticipating it. But she could never have anticipated what happened next. He flinched, and pulled away. The fireworks that had been going off in her heart fizzled, once bright and colourful sparks dying- trailing down to earth from the sky as wilting embers.

“Stiles?” she asked, failing to disguise the hurt in her voice as plain as an open wound.

“Lydia, I-” Stiles stammered out the words “I- I... I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” she breathed, shaking her head. She pulled away from him abruptly, her hand snagging on his neck as she did so. What Stiles said next sounded like each word had been ripped from his throat, and his voice was as battered and weary as he looked. But what hurt him then hurt Lydia ten times more.

“I’m so sorry. I just don’t see you that way anymore,” he whispered. “I’m sorry Lydia.”

Lydia felt her stomach hit the floor. She stared at him blankly for a few moments, lips parted and breathing raggedly. Her heart throbbed, and with each beat her throat grew tighter. Furrowing her brow, she swallowed back the tears. What did he mean? Had she been so caught up in the moment that it had never even occurred to her?

But part of her had always known... known what? That he was in love with her? Had she been so stupid to think he could actually like her back? Had she really just given her heart to him, only for him to chuck it back?

“That’s fine, Stiles,” Lydia said suddenly, quietly. She stared fixedly at a far-off spot in the woods. The next words she said were toxic and tasted bitter on her tongue, a poison invading her heart and lungs. It kind of felt like she was dying, just in a different way than one would expect. But she was strangely okay with that.

“You feel how you feel. I get it. It didn’t mean anything anyway,” she went on.

Quiet fell once more. Stiles blinked; hurt a red welt forming on his cheeks. He reached out for her hand, but she recoiled from his touch.

“It didn’t mean anything?” he repeated slowly. Isaiah watched them from a couple of metres away, his lips twitching, amused.

“Yeah, I got caught up in the moment,” she replied coolly, moving to stand “Too much of watching the Notebook, I guess. Are you well enough to stand? I want to get this whole thing over and done with.”

Stiles looked at her blankly for a moment. His features were furrowed and contorted as if he were in pain. _Screw him_ , Lydia thought. He had been the one to dig the knife into her chest, only to wince when his hand just so happened to get caught on the blade.

Stiles noticed her expression, and swallowed. He dragged himself up to his feet. He looked healthy again, which was a surprise. It must have been the vampire blood. His hollow cheeks had filled out, and his eyes had been ignited to gold once more. And yet, he still looked wounded. In what way, Lydia wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t care. She turned away.

“The Nemeton is to the north,” she announced, pointing in its general direction. She was almost surprised at how easily she had managed to swallow her emotions, because really, all she wanted to do was to drop down to the floor. All she wanted to do was to cry. She wanted to wrap her arms around herself, gather all of her limbs close, and she wanted to cry.

Instead, she smiled bitterly. “We’re close now.”

“Thank you, little Banshee,” Isaiah cooed, stepping forward to take her elbow. Instead of shaking him off like she normally would do, she allowed it. The other vampires joined his side; having dispatched of Melanie’s mangled remains. They set off into the woods once again.

Lydia quickly glanced over her back, and saw Stiles stood in the same spot as before, completely still. His arms were wrapped around his chest and his expression was wearily drawn. His eyes met Lydia’s. She turned away again, but not before she saw the look on his face. A look that made her heart drop, because he looked lost. A wounded boy in the deep, dark woods. Lost.

***

Stiles stumbled a couple of steps, before his side slammed into the tree. He slid down it slowly, until he was on his knees and his head was in his hands. He ran a hand raggedly through his hair, digging the nails in.

He knew he only had a moment or two alone before the vampires noticed him missing again. They were already striding ahead with Lydia, but he didn’t care. He just didn’t care. He tightened his grip on his hair, wanting to tug it out with a vicious rip.

He had thought life was worth fighting for. He had thought Lydia was worth fighting for. But he didn’t have her anymore. He had lost her the moment those fucking awful words had forced themselves past his lips. The enthral had only worked because he hadn't fought enough against it, because he wasn’t strong enough to resist it. He wasn’t strong enough for Lydia, he wasn’t strong enough for himself.

And now Lydia hated him. And somehow, he hated himself even more.

His face contorted, and he allowed his eyes to drift to a close. Maybe if he kept them shut for long enough, all of this could go away. He could fall asleep and never have to wake up again. He could forget about the world and the world could forget about him. But of course, that’s not how things work. Try to escape and lose yourself in a fantasy, reality will come back with a hard hitting fist.

The vampires found him again. He heard the crunch of curled, dead pine leaves beneath feet, and slowly peeled his eyes open. He didn’t even resist when he was hauled up to a stand, just accepted his fate. Defeated and with nowhere to go, he was a guiltless man on death’s row.

He walked without protest, a vampire to his right and left. Each step he took was laboured and shuddered through him; each breath he took seemed to sink his flat, heavy heart further into his chest. He looked up to see Lydia chatting quietly to Isaiah, his hand still on her arm. He looked down again. He couldn’t work up the energy to be angry. Not anymore. In fact, he didn’t have the energy for anything. As if on cue, his legs gave up and he slid to the ground. He was promptly yanked up again.

Isaiah noticed the commotion, and turned around. Stiles looked at him, and he looked at Stiles. And then he briefly flicked his eye to the Banshee at his arm. Subtle, but the suggestion was there. Suddenly, the younger boy didn’t quite feel so weak anymore. He lurched forward, racing towards the smug, spiteful little man.

“I’ll kill you,” he spat out, eyes wild as he threw himself forward, tackling Isaiah to the ground. They hurtled down; hit the hard earth with a heavy thump, the impact winding him like a punch.

“Is that really the way you want to be speaking to the man who just saved your life?” Isaiah breathlessly laughed, grabbing Stiles’s hand as he went in for another blow. Viciously, he threw the other boy off, chuckling darkly as he did so.

“Don’t you dare pretend that you did it for me,” Stiles hissed, scrabbling back up to his feet and tackling the vampire down again. This time he managed to knock Isaiah onto his back, smashing his head into a tree trunk. Deep red, satisfying blood began to flow out.

“Undo it,” Stiles screamed. He was out of his mind and not entirely sure he wasn’t dead. No way could this be real, no way could this hell be real.

“Undo what?” Isaiah asked innocently, still laughing. He looked damaged, deranged and more dangerous than ever before. Blood had flowed past his lips and seeped into the crevices between his teeth, and his spread mouth made it look like he had just ripped a heart out. Which he had done, now that Stiles thought about it. The hollowness he felt in his chest was as real as anything.

“You know fucking what,” Stiles snapped. He tried to say the words, to tell Lydia the truth, that he _was_ sorry, but only for loving her so much he had gotten them in this mess- but they got stuck in his throat. Stuck, as if a hand were wrapped around his neck. _Isaiah’s_ hand. He had done this. Stiles let out an infuriated growl, hot anger like magma in his bones, about to blow. He went to punch the man again.

“Stiles! Stiles, stop!” a voice cried, a voice a lot like Lydia’s. He stilled. That one hesitation was enough. Isaiah grabbed him, and suddenly he was the one on his back. The vampire’s grip dug deep into his wrists, nails stabbing down into the flesh. Stiles barely suppressed his gasp.  

“We’re close to the Nemeton now,” Isaiah whispered, leaning in close. The other vampires and Lydia weren’t near enough to hear his next words. “Do you know what that means, Stiles?”

The younger boy slammed his lips tightly shut, nostrils flaring with barely contained anger and strain. His eyes seared into the older man’s, water in the corners rippling as he bit back the pain.

“I think you’re not thinking clearly. After all, you did just come back from the dead. No need to thank me for that, by the way” the vampire said with his casual, arrogant drawl- each syllable painfully drawn out with a lingering hiss “It means we don’t need her anymore. So misbehave, and she’s the one who ends up dead.”

“Let me tell her the truth and I will,” Stiles replied through gritted teeth.

Isaiah hissed, slamming his fist down on the ground beside the boy’s head, causing him to wince. “You don’t get any bargaining chips here. The situation is simple. Don’t comply, she dies.”

“You kill her, I’ll never willingly do what you say,” Stiles snarled back “And whatever you want me to do has to be willing right?” The vampire remained silent, chest heaving. Stiles took that as a good sign. “Looks like you don’t have many bargaining chips here either. Impasse, Isaiah. Im-fucking-passe.”

Isaiah deliberated a moment, his eyes narrowed and calculating. And then, as quickly as his confusion had come, it passed. His features smoothed out, and a slow, menacing smile started to spread.

“We don’t have to start with her. We can easily start with your dad, or maybe the Alpha boy Scott. The ex-girlfriend perhaps?” Isaiah began ticking off names like items on a shopping list, and Stiles felt revulsion build up, hot and thick “My old threat still stands Stiles. Either way, you will _willingly_ do as I say. Just a few innocent people may or may not have to die first.”

Stiles hated to admit it, but he actually whimpered at the threat. He started to struggle under the vampire’s grip, but Isaiah just shook his head, pressing in harder.

“How many times are we going to have to have this conversation? I’m really quite sick of it now,” he drawled, laughing softly when Stiles let out a hoarse sob “So I propose this. Next time we have it, I’ll rip Lydia’s pretty throat out. How does that sound?”

“Just let me tell her the truth. Please,” he whispered, voice brittle “I don’t want her to hate me.”

“How does that sound, Stiles?” Isaiah said again, enunciating each word carefully.

“Please.”

“No. You went against me. This will be the last time that happens,” the vampire replied shortly, bundling his hands into Stiles’s shirt and dragging him back to his feet. The other vampires and Lydia looked at them expectantly. He smiled brightly, before leaning in once more. “And as your punishment, I won’t be lifting the spell. She’ll die before she hears that you love her. Guess you better keep her alive until then.”

Stiles blanched, freezing to the spot with shock- that was until Isaiah shoved him forward and began hauling him along by the arm. They quickly resumed their walk. Lydia reluctantly guided them forward, walking alongside Isaiah.

The banshee shot Stiles a look that he didn’t have the strength to return. Was she on their side now? It was obvious she hadn’t heard any of their conversation; otherwise she would be acting differently. More defiantly. Or maybe she wouldn’t be. Maybe she hated him so much now, she didn’t care what happened to him either way.

Stiles let out a shuddery sigh of defeat. Isaiah, noticing this, smiled triumphantly and tightened his grip.

They continued to trundle for what felt like hours on end. Stiles lost all grip on reality, his thoughts a muddled mess of disjointed words and swirling thoughts. He didn’t know how long Lydia and him had been missing. He didn’t know the last time he had had something to eat. Even the memory of his own face was blurred around the edges. Only one thing stuck out with complete clarity.

He had to save Lydia. He knew that the second the vampires got what they wanted, both of them would be dead. And he couldn’t allow that. Because even though she hated him, even though things would never be the same between them again, he still loved her. He loved her.

And he wished he could have told her what it felt like to have her lips on his, because it had changed his world. It had been like drowning and burning all at the same time, if that were possible.

She had robbed him of breath with her sweet, petal-like lips, and heat had blossomed up in his heart like a rose-bud made of flame, melting him inside and out. He hadn’t been able to get any air. And he hadn’t wanted to. He had wanted to submerge and drown himself in her lips. Wanted to lose himself in the place they promised to take him. A place where it was just her and him, and he could fall into the emerald pools of her eyes and swim. In that place, everything was perfect.

Everything could have been perfect. But Isaiah had made sure it never would be. And Stiles hated him for it. But there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t make things right with Lydia, he couldn’t make Isaiah pay for what he had done. What the hell was he going to do? What the hell could he do? The answer was nothing. Now, all he could do was wait. Wait for the inevitable, the absolute.

And the absolute came, as it always does. “We’re here,” Lydia said suddenly, softly. And then the world went still.

***

For a place that was quite literally the centre of the supernatural earth, the Nemeton was awfully quiet. Quiet and still, beautiful but sinister. It glowed with life, yet stunk of death.

The ice-hardened earth made the perfect bed for dead leaves- muggy browns and ashy ambers its mouldering patch quilt. The clearing the Nemeton sat in opened up to reveal a stony night sky, and any split in the shroud of clouds revealed darkness that stretched out into complete void.

From the gnarled, decaying tree stump, vines and roots spread and sprawled out. The colours of rotten moss and sickly grey, the roots were like parasitic worms- digging into and seeping the life out of the already-dying ground.

A gentle, strangely warm breeze blew through. It was almost like a curling finger, tempting Lydia to move forward, to step out of the shade of the trees and into the exposed clearing, just to find reprieve from the winter’s bitter cold. But Lydia knew better. The Nemeton was a power hungry place, promising life and warmth but instead bringing death and destruction. The fact it was trying to lure her in closer repelled her further.

The trees around ruffled suddenly, as if displeased by her lack of compliance. Lydia swallowed thickly, and found her hand reaching out for Stiles’s- only to realise it wasn’t there to take. She choked back the loneliness clawing at her throat.

“This is it,” she breathed, fear turning her heart to heavy stone.

“The Nemeton?” an unfamiliar vampire asked nervously.

“Yeah,” she whispered, nodding distractedly. Everyone around seemed to be in a trance, the throbbing power of the place mesmerizingly sinister. Lydia’s eyes flickered over to Stiles, and she was surprised to see he wasn’t quite so enamoured like the rest of them. Instead, he looked wary, a foot somewhat lifted off the ground as if he were ready to run. His sharp eyes wandered over to Lydia, and froze.

Suddenly, the vampire who had spoken before took a step forward. It looked involuntary, from the way his whole body shuddered as if straining against an iron hold. His face had slackened into one of mute horror, a silent scream- dragging the skin around his mouth down so it sagged.

And then he died. The foot that had moved from the shelter of the trees into the clearing shot out from beneath him and he was wrenched forward, gripped by an invisible hand. The vampire landed on his back, the impact ripping a raw cry from his throat. He began to surge forward, towards the Nemeton, shifting the earth like a worm leaves tracks of dirt. Then, as soon as he reached the dead tree, the roots spread out and wrapped around his body, tugging him down into the ground.

And somehow, incredibly, the earth split around him. A moment later he was submerged beneath the dirt. He screamed. It was a dull sound, muffled by the mud encasing him all around. His hand suddenly shot out, frantically grappling at the ground. Another cry came. And then he was gone, pulled completely down. He went into death’s arms, screaming all the way.

Other screams joined his. All around, the vampires started to be tugged forward, towards the Nemeton. Sudden thunder came and growled as lightning shot through the sky. Hail started to pour down.

Lydia stood there, paralysed. That was until she felt a cold, unseen hand wrap around her ankle as well. She let out a hoarse cry as her legs were knocked out from beneath her, and she hit the ground with winding force. Her body started to hurtle forward, and she opened her mouth to scream- until warm hands wrapped around her chest, wrenching her away.

Gasping hoarsely, she threw herself back into the protective grip. She and her saviour managed to scramble back from the clearing and into the shelter of trees again. When she looked up to face them, both relief and disbelief made her heart jump.

“Come on, we can go,” Stiles stammered out, hurriedly helping her up to her feet.  “They’re distracted. We can go.”

Lydia paused for a moment. Her eyes flickered over to the still-screaming, writhing vampires. Isaiah was among them, hands desperately clawing at the earth. She felt a horrific wrench in her gut. Her gaze flickered back to Stiles. And even though she had told herself otherwise, she could never hate him. He was the one person she would follow no matter where he might go.

And so she nodded, and they took off sprinting into the woods.


	8. Couldn't Be Further From The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Lydia have escaped- but how long is their reprieve?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fucking chapter oh my god I hate it. I've written it about 3 times and I finally just got fed up and decided to get posting it over and done with. I'm sure this instils you all with faith lol- anyway, I hope you guys still find enjoyment reading it despite my hatred lmao
> 
> Anyway, as always... To every single reader who has stuck with me and this fic- you guys make me smile and laugh and cry time and time again. Thank you :) Reading your comments, seeing your kudos, or that someone has just given this fic a read... It means the world to me :)
> 
> Edit: I'm a massive idiot and forgot to say there are suicide trigger warnings in this chapter. Sorry- I really hope none of you were affected. That being said, no the ending of this chapter isn't what it seems- there's still many more chapters left to go :)

Everything was overwhelming. The world around sharpened, flickered- a thousand heightened images flashing across her vision like movie frames. The logical part of her brain was telling her it was the flight or fight response. Adrenaline enhancing her senses, burning like acid in her veins. She wanted to throw up. The logical part of her brain told her not to. The logical part of her brain was the only thing keeping her alive and sane.

What the hell just happened? How had she and Stiles managed to escape? How were they even alive right now?

The logical part of her brain said they were meant to be dead- probability and all of that. But they weren’t. So maybe the logical part of her brain was wrong. That was a good and bad thing. Good because they weren’t dead. Bad because that probably meant she was insane.

“How... much... longer?” Lydia gasped out as they ran.

“Not... long...” Stiles called back, a darting silhouette up ahead. “Nearly... far... enough...away...”

Grinding her teeth together, Lydia put on an extra spurt of speed. She caught up with Stiles, and then the two raced alongside one another, dodging trees and hurdling fallen logs. His eyes, hard and determined, caught the moonlight, and where they did liquid silver spilled into molten gold. It could have been hours or minutes, a second or an infinity, before they finally slowed to a jog, and then a brisk walk. Wheezing turned to panting, then panting to slow, easy breaths. And where peace settled, awkwardness followed. At least they were safe for now. They had managed to secure enough of a distance between them and the Nemeton.

“Where are we?” Lydia demanded, eyes scanning the still-foreign forest. “Do you reckon we’re safe? Are Isaiah and the others dead?”

“We’re on the outskirts of the preserve, I think. And yeah, I think they might be,” Stiles huffed out.

“That’s a lot of ‘I thinks’ Stiles,” she pointed out, wrapping her arms around herself. Unconsciously, she had attempted to replicate a hug. It didn’t work. Hugs were meant to be warm, assuring. They were meant to let you know you weren’t alone. But she was alone. She had Stiles, but she was alone. The fact she was hugging herself could have told anyone that.

“Think is the best we’ve got,” he snapped back.

She gave him a withering glare, grinding her teeth “Don’t get angry at me. This is your fault.”

“How is it my fault?” Stiles demanded, indignant, flinging his arms out.

“I wouldn’t even be in this fucked up mess if you hadn’t wanted to go freaking ghost hunting,” she spat, barely able to keep her voice under control.

“Ah yes, because I definitely knew that the ghost thing was a trap,” he drawled, face a stony mask of indifference. His flared nostrils were the only indication of his true agitation. “In fact, I’m entirely responsible for this whole thing. See, I actually conspired with the vampires so we could get abducted, mind-fucked and tortured out of our freaking minds. Makes sense, right?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Lydia snapped, storming ahead. She cast her head down, sucking in her bottom lip to stop both the toxic tears burning like acid in her eyes and the angry retorts. But Stiles, the scrawny swarm of sarcastic remarks and stubbornness that he was, wasn’t going to let it go. He thundered over, and snatched her up by the arm.

“Let go,” Lydia said immediately.

“You can’t seriously be blaming me for this,” Stiles shook his head, throwing himself directly in her path and line of sight.

Keeping her head resolutely tucked down, Lydia continued to try and wrench her wrist from his grip. “Let _go_ , Stiles.”

“Not until you look at me!” he exclaimed.

“I never put you down as one for assault,” Lydia said, cold as ice. She finally looked up, tears she could no longer fight wobbling in her eyes. “But if you don’t let go, I swear to god-“

Stiles immediately whipped his hand away. He looked up at her, guilty and dismayed. His fingers went to rub at the hand that had just been clasped around her wrist. She noticed how he dug his nails into the skin, leaving red scores.

“Lydia... I’m so sorry,” he finally said, quietly.

“We hadn’t spoken for months, and then suddenly you wanted to go all ghost busters with me,” she said, ignoring the apology. Suddenly, she was incredibly fed up of walking. Finding a tree, she stormed over to it and slid down the trunk, before pulling her knees up to her chest and putting her chin there to rest.

“I know,” Stiles admitted, clambering down to sit opposite. Where his nails scratched at the skin of his hand, it was bleeding. “I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

“And then you led me on,” she continued, setting her jaw. Tears swam in her eyes and air felt thick in her lungs. “Before saying ‘hey, actually, I don’t like you anymore. I just thought I’d play you around for a bit first.’”

Stiles swallowed, putting his elbows on his knees and bunching his hands up in his hair. The words that came out next sounded strangled. “I know.”

“I’m not in love with you, by the way,” Lydia quickly added on, the lie a hard, sharp stone in her throat. “I just got caught up in the moment. You nearly died, so...”

“I know,” Stiles said again, voice still strangled. His fingers spasmed, digging deeper into his hair. His breathing came out in ragged huffs. Then suddenly his head snapped up and his expression, which had been drawn in pensive lines before, cleared. “Wait, Lydia-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shook her head.

“No just listen for a second,” he insisted, abruptly sitting up “...I don’t know how I can say it. But what I said before... what if it wasn’t true.”

Lydia furiously blinked away the tears “You can’t make yourself feel something you don’t feel, Stiles.”

“No, seriously. What if what I said was the opposite of true?” he went on, eyes intense and earnest on hers. There was desperation in them, clamouring in their depths, causing the gold in them to shimmer. “Lydia, the truth is, I-“

He cut off abruptly, mouth groping uselessly, the words dying on his tongue.

“What is it?” Lydia frowned, straightening herself up. Stiles swallowed, and tried again.

“What if there was some reason I couldn’t tell you? What if somebody made me lie?” he said slowly. Something began to shift in Lydia’s mind. A jumbled puzzle, pieces slotting together. As she began to work furiously to fit them into the right places, Stiles went on. “What if there was some way they made sure I couldn’t tell you the truth?”

“Isaiah enthralled you,” Lydia breathed, realisation knocking the air out of her chest. Stiles nodded, tentatively prodding her in the right direction. “So wait... let me just figure this out. He enthralled you, and made sure you wouldn’t be able to tell me that’s what he’d done?”

Stiles nodded again, face contorting slightly- unable to outright say it. It must have been the enthral still having its effects despite his best attempts to work around it.

“So he enthralled you to say... what? That you didn’t...”

Lydia was unable to say the next words, but due to no supernatural force. No, it was just the fact they weighed so heavily in her heart, it was a struggle to pull them out of her chest and move them past her lips.

“To say you that you didn’t... you know...” she finally managed to get out. Stiles’s eyes brightened, and their gold was suddenly the sun. It almost hurt to look at him then, but Lydia didn’t care. “And so what you said before- it wasn’t true?”

“Couldn’t be further from the truth,” he whispered.

Used in a different time or place, those words won’t have meant much to Lydia. Individual, on their own, they would have been simple. But now, they were everything and anything. They sent the world spinning on its heels, washed colours with a brighter hue. They left Lydia reeling, unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality.

But for once, she was desperately clutching onto reality out of the two. Fantasy was a sketch, beautiful in mind but never quite true- reality was something you could hold in your hand, something simple and sweet and _real_. And this, right now, this was real. She couldn’t believe it, it couldn’t be real, it had to be a dream. But she so desperately didn’t want it to be.

“What I said before,” she started, swallowing “That couldn’t be further from the truth, too.”

“You love me?” Stiles asked quietly, completely stripped down and vulnerable. His lips were parted, eyes shimmering.

“Yeah. I do,” Lydia murmured, mouth open and tipped up in a timid smile. A low, airy laugh danced past her lips.

In that moment, she would have done anything to kiss him. With elevation a bubbly, flighty sensation in her veins, her limbs felt lighter than air, yet never more firmly planted on the ground. He kept her tethered to the earth, and strangely was also the one who made her fly.

Stiles saw her staring and smiled then, shifting himself so he was sat propped up on the tree trunk besides her. And there they sat, side by side, for what they wished could be all night. But of course it couldn’t be. It was perfect and perfection is an illusion. Eventually, it would have to dissipate.

“What exactly do you two think you’re doing?” a voice asked, startling them from their trance.

They both immediately sprung up to their feet. A flashlight saturated them in bright blue hues, blinding them briefly. But when Stiles’s vision cleared, and he saw who it was, the relief was so heady it knocked an incredulous laugh from his chest.

“Something funny?” the police officer sneered, folding his arms. The two teens exchanged beaming looks, before eagerly shaking their heads. The cop still seemed unamused, and pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “Alright, give me your names. I have reason to believe you’re under-aged and have been taking illegal highs.”

Lydia rolled her eyes when Stiles laughed again. He really wasn’t helping their case.

“Crap, sorry,” he said, trying his best to suppress a smile “I just don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to hear a sentence like that. Not that I hear it often or anything. Obviously.”

“Names,” the cop repeated with a growl. He was a stiff looking man, with thin lips and an intolerant furrow to his brow. Thinning hair the colour of mushy ice sat sparsely upon his head, and there was something off about his eyes.

“Lydia Martin,” Lydia hastily supplied, noticing the man’s rising agitation.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles added.

The man’s expression smoothed out, astonishment clear in his wobbling lips and agape mouth. “You the two missing kids?”

The two teens stared blankly at him for a moment, before realising.

“Wow... yeah. Sorry, I’m just a bit dazed. Yeah, that’s us,” Stiles stuttered, still mutely surprised when he really shouldn’t have been. Of course his dad would have gone to the ends of the earth to find him. They had only been missing for a day or two, and already every cop was on the lookout. Most towns would have just assumed they were two drunken teens who had passed out in a bush after celebrating the start of Winter Break.

If he was correct, they had been taken on the Friday night, and today was the Sunday. Could that be right? It didn’t seem half as long as it should. That meant Winter Solstice was tomorrow, and its Ball too. Maybe he would get to ask Lydia to go after all.

“I’d better take you back to where you belong then,” the cop said, drawing Stiles out of his thoughts. He felt a hand brush his knuckles and then fingers meld with his. Lydia smiled up at him, and he smiled right back. The two teens happily complied with the cop, going in the direction he was pointing them to, walking side by side.

Realisation was finally starting to settle in. They were going home. They were going _home_. That one thought in itself was enough to set Stiles’s insides alight, a warm glow radiating through his stomach and making his heart feel light. However, that did beg the question... what the hell had happened to their captors? He still wasn’t able to wrap his head around the fact a freaking tree stump had literally pulled that one vampire into the earth and swallowed him up, killing him. The man’s screams still echoed in his ear. That could have been him.

Stiles furrowed his brow, thinking hard. So why exactly hadn’t it been him? He knew the Nemeton was a place that drew power, but that didn’t really explain why it had tried killing them. Then he thought back to what Lydia had said a couple of times in the past. The Nemeton was a place that didn’t want to be found- only the worthy or in need could actually find it. Stiles guessed that’s why it had let him and the Banshee escape. After all, they hadn’t been there willingly. That made sense. Well actually, it made no sense. But looking for logic in a world with homicidal lizards and wendigos was a search that could only ever meet dead ends.

“You know my dad, right?” Stiles piped up as they trundled through the woods. It looked like they were heading towards the Preserve cliff edge, not the main road, which was strange. He didn’t bother questioning it- at least this way there was a chance of him seeing his beloved Jeep again, who he had had to abandon at the cliff when first attacked.

“Who?” the cop asked, frowning. Stiles turned around to face the man, scanning him curiously. There definitely was something off about his eyes.

“My dad, Sheriff Stilinski,” he explained slowly. Lydia’s grip on his hand tightened. A horrible sinking feeling started to seep through his veins, and his empty stomach began to curdle the bile in his gut.

“You are taking us to the police station, right?” Lydia asked tentatively.

“I’m taking you where you belong,” was all the man said, voice monotone as he continued to trot forward.

“Okay, well you’re definitely not taking us in the right direction,” the Banshee stated, nodding towards the cliff edge coming into view.

“I’m taking you where you belong,” the man droned again. Lydia and Stiles stopped dead in their tracks. This was all too familiar. Horrifyingly familiar.

“I want to talk to my dad,” Stiles declared “Can you radio him?”

There came the click of a gun from behind him, and then the cop’s deadly flat voice followed: “You don’t need to talk to him. You need to come with me.”

Stiles and Lydia stared at the man blankly. And then they started to run.

“Dart side to side!” Lydia screamed as bullets hammered into the ground and trees around their feet, spraying out splinters of bark and debris. “Throw off his aim!”

Stiles clumsily did so, stumbling a couple of times- adrenaline shuddered through him, making his blood feel like it was only made of air, leaving him trembling and unsteady. He was quickly shocked back into co-ordination when a bullet imbedded itself in a tree just besides his head.

Wide-eyed, he paused to look at the bullet- only to realise it wasn’t a bullet at all. The ruffled feathers of the tranquiliser were almost neon against the black backdrop of the night. He heard an infuriated growl come from behind him, then the heavy thudding of running feet. Quickly regaining his footing, he shot after the strawberry blonde again who was already a few metres ahead.

“Tranquilizer gun!” he cried out to Lydia, arms whipping up to shield his head as further darts sliced through the air above him. The cop’s aim was thrown off slightly by the running, but he was still accurate. Dangerously accurate. Stiles reminded himself to keep moving from side to side.

Pain hacked viciously at his lungs, his breathing was raw and raspy- legs numb and blundering, they felt almost like they were detached from his body as they slammed into the earth. He could barely keep his balance as he leapt and hopped across the forest debris. It looked like the most peculiar dance. The dance of the hunter and its prey. Darting, stumbling, and swinging his body so to avoid the darts peppering the ground at his feet, his movements were fluid and frenetic. But Stiles knew he couldn’t run forever. Eventually the dance had to end.

Up ahead Lydia was still running, her fiery-haired figure blazing up the forest made of the dead and decayed. Winter had festered here, worming its parasitic, icy touch into the soil and leaching away the life. The rotten, mouldering leaves beneath his feet formed a bed. A death bed, its quilt made entirely from all that was perished and squirming with white, plump insects.

So when Stiles felt the dart slam into his shoulder, the impact spinning him around and toppling him to the ground, he felt it appropriate. Here he was, literally on death’s bed, as he was about to face the end. Because this undoubtedly was the end. He could recognise the glaze of the man’s eyes from anywhere. Glazed eyes he had once owned. They were the eyes of the enthralled.

They were alive. The vampires were alive, and already they were looking for and tracking the teens down.

Lydia whirled around, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Her steps faltered. Stiles frantically shook his head, lips moving soundlessly to call out, tell her to run away. But he couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t say anything. His movements became jerky as the tranquiliser worked its way through his veins, his body a spluttering engine before chugging to its death.

“Stiles!” Lydia cried out, scream dry and throaty like a banshee’s. Was she screaming for him, or his death? She let out another cry when a fresh round of darts hammered down in the ground just besides her feet.

She didn’t hesitate another second. She ran. She ran, but it wasn’t away- it was towards him. Stiles shook his head again, his hand outstretched and twitching erratically. Lydia set her features so they were stoic and hard, locking her eyes with his. The enthralled cop tilted his head curiously at her, finger still poised over the trigger. With her arms resolutely stuck by her sides and a face so stormy hurricanes would look like a breeze, Lydia thundered over to Stiles and the man.

“Can you stand?” she asked Stiles with surprising calm. Calm before the storm, he noted ironically. “Tranq guns need more than one shot to knock out humans.”

“Maybe,” Stiles grumbled, his body still spasming slightly. Somehow, he managed to lug himself back up to his feet. “I can’t believe we’re about to be freaking kidnapped again.”

Any protests wilted on his tongue when he saw the barrel of a new, real gun press into Lydia’s hip.

“Stiles, come on. We don’t have much of a choice,” she said flatly, allowing herself to be nudged forward by the insistent hand holding the gun. Stiles staggered forward to take her by the hand, still a bit groggy. The drugs made his limbs feel watery.

“I’ll take you to where you belong now,” the cop said robotically, pressing his hand firmly down on Stiles’s shoulder and his gun still digging into Lydia’s side. The duo began to move with him as he pushed them forward.

“They’ve enthralled every person out in the woods, haven’t they?” Stiles asked, defeated.

“Probably,” Lydia sighed.

Stiles sucked in a shuddery breath. “I thought they died. They should be dead right?”

“Theoretically.”

“Which means they’ve survived. They’re coming for us. They’ve brainwashed a whole bunch of people, and now they’re about to round us up, take us back to the magical tree stump of doom, and we’re probably going to get eaten alive by the ground.”

“Sounds about right.”

Stiles sighed. Because yes, this was his life now. The cop tightened his grip on his shoulder, and shoved him forward, causing him to stumble a bit. Lydia helped him regain his balance by placing a steady hand on his shoulder. Stiles nodded at her gratefully.

They walked for a couple minutes in silence, until they reached the Preserve cliff edge. Then the cop ordered the two teens to sit down at the ledge, and wait for the vampires to arrive. He kept his gun trained on them the entire time. Stiles guessed Isaiah and the others had spread out all across the forest to find them, and that’s why they weren’t there yet. That showed commitment, if anything.

“We’re never going to get out of this are we?” Lydia asked quietly, dangling her legs over the ledge.

“Not alive,” Stiles replied honestly. He cast his gaze to further down the cliff edge. Something had caught the corner of his eye, and he squinted, trying to make it out. It was blue, and kind of looked like... Shaking his head, he went on. “I just thought they were this week’s big bag, you know? Normally we’d just get through it. But this time... I don’t know.”

Lydia didn’t turn to face him, just looked down at the drop, contemplating. She sucked in a sharp breath before speaking.

“Sometimes I wonder...” she faltered, confliction over what she was trying to say straining her face “Sometimes I wonder if it would be better if we just... dropped.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked tentatively.

Tears started to brim in Lydia’s eyes, and her voice became croaky as she spoke. “Whatever these guys want, it’s bad. Melanie tried to kill you to stop it. She was a psychopath and even she recognised what they’re trying to do is wrong. So maybe... Maybe we should end it now-“ she looked up at Stiles then, dragging a rough tongue over even rougher chapped lips “And we could, you know. We could throw ourselves over this ledge, and we could hit the ground. We could save everyone. We could bring it to an end.”

Stiles went silent. Pressing his lips together, his leaned over to wrap both hands around her smaller ones. And then Lydia started to cry. A strangled sob came from deep in her throat, and Stiles made a similar noise of his own, before pulling her in close. He began to whisper soft words, words of comfort. He pressed his head into her hair, and rocked her back and forth.

His words only made her feel worse. They reminded her far too much of what could have been hers. They were going to die before Isaiah’s spell was ever lifted, before they could ever be together. And that tore her apart. She continued to cry, and Stiles continued to rock her back and forth, curled up in his arms.

They stayed that way for a long, long time. They stayed that way until her sobs calmed to hiccups, and the tears finally stopped. The ground was cold, and where her legs dangled over the ledge she could have easily dropped. But she was warm and safe in Stiles’s arms, so she didn’t mind.

“Feels like this night has gone on forever,” she murmured, tucking her head beneath his chin.

“Yeah. Feels like it has,” he said, closing his eyes. He quietly enjoyed the feel of her silky hair against his rough chin. Having not shaved for a bit, it was speckled slightly by stubble.

“Stiles?” Lydia asked him, voice heart-achingly raw.

“Yeah?”

“I just wanna go home,” she whispered “Please just... take me home.”

Stiles pulled back gently to look at her then, brow softened. Her eyes were gentle and earnest on his. She looked and sounded young again. She spoke innocent words, words of a child when scared. Face void of makeup and with downturned, wobbly lips, she made his heart contract in his chest.

“I promise you,” he said, hand going to lightly brush across her forehead “I’ll figure this out. I'll figure out a way to get you back.”

“You promise?” she asked, simple and sweet. The cop’s head perked up suddenly. There was movement in the distance.

“Of course,” he said, glancing behind them briefly. He could see figures moving towards them- the vampires. The cop’s gun was still trained at their heads, so there was no escape that way. He looked back again, smiling remorsefully. “I have a plan.”

Lydia swallowed, noticing the figures too. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, finger curling around a strand of her hair he had caught when stroking her head. “Yeah, I do.”

“What is it?” Lydia asked, frowning ever so slightly. “It’s a terrible plan, isn’t it?”

“Terrible plans are kind of our signature thing,” he agreed with a grin “You ready?”

Lydia barely had time to mutter out a “Yeah” paired with a soft smile that paralleled the one plastered across his lips before, suddenly, Stiles threw himself forward, over the ledge- taking her with him, sending them both hurtling towards their deaths.


	9. Reveniens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles's plan was terrible; he and Lydia try to survive its consequences. Sudden twists and revelations leave the duo's worlds upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we have it- brace yourselves for a shit-ton of exposition. I really hope my explanations don't disappoint and actually make sense. Also, I'm afraid there's not much Stydia in this chapter. There simply wasn't enough time, the chapter is nearly 5000 words long omg (and god my eyes feel like they're going to fALL OUT because I've been meticulously combing through and editing this for 5 hours). However, there's plenty Stydia action in upcoming chapters, so no need to worry! I'm such trash for these two there will never be a shortage of angst/romance lmao
> 
> Anyway, I just thought I'd let you guys know the end is in sight! I've written up to Chapter 13, and I believe Chapter 15 is when the story will reach its natural conclusion. Everything's plotted out, the climax is partway written and I'm really sad that my first multi-chapter fic is soon to be over! When I actually reach the end, I'll write out my big speech- but for now, enjoy!
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has given this fic a chance! :) It means so so much to me. I always feel really awkward and embarrassed about putting a new chapter up, but you've all been so sweet and supportive, and it really eases my anxiety- plus, it's just mind-blowing to see all this positivity aimed at my writing. Anyway, I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, so if you guys can, I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback on it once again :)

Lydia felt the air shift around her, and then wind began to rapidly rush past her ears. Her hands desperately flung out to grab onto something, anything- but it all just slipped through her fingers like water, and all she could catch in her palm was air. She screamed.

Suddenly, she swung inwards, and her body slammed down into rock. She let out a choked sob, vision fragmented by the shock of the impact. Then she realised where she was.  She suppressed another sob, pressing herself further against the rock. Stiles had done it. The idiot had actually done it. He had thrown them over the edge of the precipice, and somehow managed to grapple onto the cliff-face and swing them in onto a ledge.

“I _swear to god_ if I die, I’m going to freaking _kill_ you Stiles,” Lydia snapped, before letting out a shriek when her sweat slicked palms slipped on the rock wall she desperately clung onto.

“Oh for god’s sake, shut up!” Stiles whispered harshly, his voice coming from just beside her head. She abruptly became aware of the hand looped around her waist. She gasped softly, and Stiles hugged her closer to his chest.

“This was your plan?” she hissed. She felt herself teeter slightly, and shoved herself firmly against the wall again. The ledge couldn’t have been more than half a metre wide, and it was crumbling in places. Honestly, they were in a worse place than they started in. "This is a  _terrible_ plan."

“Signature thing,” Stiles reminded her, sounding vaguely indignant, before adding “We’ve got to keep our voices down.”

One of his arms was wrapped around her waist, the other clutched at a ridge in the wall. From the way it was deeply gashed and steadily bleeding, Lydia figured that was the one he had grabbed onto the cliff-face and swung them in with.  Was he a complete idiot? He could have easily lost his grip, or there could not have even been a ledge to land on, or they could have gone tumbling to their deaths, and...

The screaming cut her panicked ramblings off. The screaming, followed by the snap, followed by the thud. Lydia felt all the air leave her lungs with a shaky, low huff. Stiles pulled her closer in again. A voice rang out, savagely slicing through the chilling silence with its bitter, spiteful tones.

“They can’t be dead,” Isaiah spat, loud enough for Lydia and Stiles to hear. Lydia closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her head on the rock wall they were so tightly pressed against. She rolled in her bottom lip to muffle the sob that desperately ached to come.

“I know you’re listening,” Isaiah called out, continuing “Did you hear me snap that cop’s neck? That’ll be your father’s neck soon Stiles. And your mother’s too, Banshee. But maybe if you showed yourselves... those unfortunate, untimely deaths could be prevented.”

A shadow cast itself over the teens’ heads. When Lydia looked up, she saw the vampire was just three metres above them, stood at the cliff edge, eyes frantically seeking them out. She just hoped to god that he wouldn’t look straight down.

“Isaiah, don’t be stupid. You saw them throw themselves over. They’re as good as dead,” another voice said, one that Lydia recognised to be Darius’s. She suppressed a shudder.

“No... No, I don’t think so,” Isaiah said, voice taking on a sense of distance. “Can’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?” Darius asked. The shadow cast over their heads disappeared as Isaiah stepped back, away from the cliff edge. Lydia went to take a breath.

“Their scent,” Isaiah whispered, just about audible. The breath hitched in Lydia’s throat. She could practically hear the smile in his next words. “Their blood. Their warm, cloying blood. They’re alive. And they’re close.”

“Shit,” Stiles breathed. He looked down at his grazed hand. It was bleeding steadily. Knowing they didn’t have much time now, they started to move. They started to move, with shaking hands and wobbling lips, precariously scaling the ledge. They had to get as much distance between them and the vampires as possible. Stiles’s good hand caught Lydia’s, and they clutched onto one another for dear life.

“Where the hell can we go?” she hissed, her free fingers digging in to the rough rock.

“Roscoe,” Stiles whispered back. The sadistic, victorious jeers of the vampires suddenly rang out, and they startled.

“Roscoe? Your stupid Jeep?” she asked, incredulous. She craned her neck to peer down the drop that was a mere step away. Wind roared past, buffeting them and the sharp, exposed rock.

“I left it at the cliff edge, remember? I parked it here on the night we first got attacked. I saw it back when the cop was holding us hostage,” Stiles explained quietly, his words catching ever so slightly as he took another step along the ledge “Well, at least I think it was the Jeep. I spotted something blue in the distance, so we just have to assume that’s my baby.”

"Baby? Seriously?" she gave him a disbelieving look “What about the keys?”

Stiles smiled self-deprecatingly. “I didn’t lock it and always leave a spare pair beneath the car seat.”

Lydia nodded, and turned her attention back to scaling. Wind snapped at their feet, lifting her hair and lashing it out viciously. Here, she could feel the pull of death so strongly it made her head reel and mind cloudy. Then came a seductive thought that Lydia struggled to resist. It wrapped its slinky tendrils around her foot, and gave it a playful little tug- daring her to make the next move. To take the step, lean over the cliff. Let herself fall back. Hit the jagged rocks below with a crack.

Lydia’s foot slipped.

Stiles caught her. She gasped, throat raw, and shoved herself closer to the wall. They continued scaling. They were quick, efficient, and didn’t take very much time at all- but it was still far too long for Lydia. Whenever she snuck a look over the ledge, her heart fell out of her chest. From here, everything below looked so small. Why did it look so small? The naked trees scattered across the landscape were the rotten colour of burnt flesh, and looked like tiny, skeletal hands reaching up out of the ground, begging her to drop. She knew that if she did, she’d be impaled on their bony branch fingers. Shuddering at the thought, she continued to creep along the ledge.

Finally, they came to a stop.

“I think it’ll be around here,” Stiles whispered, titling his head up to indicate. “I’ll climb first, then pull you up. Okay?”

“This isn’t safe,” Lydia pointed out. The hand that was clasped around his shook. Stiles moved his thumb to rub at it lightly.

“I know. But everywhere we go, everyone we meet... it’s never safe,” he murmured, giving her hand a quick squeeze. She weakly returned the pressure. And then he let go. “I promised I’d get you home. Do you trust me?”

“I love you,” she whispered, tentatively lifting her eye to meet his dark gaze. “That answers your question, right?”

She could barely make him out in the dim light, but she thought she saw his eyes brighten. She certainly could feel the glow of his smile against her skin. It warmed her, gave her courage. He made her braver than ever before. She made him stronger. Together, they were better.

“Well, seeing as I can’t actually say the words, I’ll say this instead,” Stiles smiled at her again, his hand going to touch her hair. She allowed it, and watched only him as he ran the strands like liquid copper through his fingertips. Suddenly, his hand ripped away, and Stiles sighed. It was the spell. Of course it was the spell, preventing them from having too much romantic contact. But somehow, he still managed to get the next words out; “I trust you, too. I trust you more than anyone.”

And then he was gone, leaving Lydia stunned. All she could think about was his words. How had he managed to say them? Was it because he loved her enough to squeeze through the spell’s loopholes? She hoped so.

When Stiles placed his hands on the ridges of the cliff face, and began to climb up, grip slipping a couple of times, Lydia felt like her heart might rip itself from her chest. But somehow, he remained firmly attached to the rock, and continued his ascent. It was only three or four metres, so it wasn’t long before he had managed to haul himself all the way to the top.

His face disappeared for a moment, and when it came back his features were bright with elation. “The Jeep, it’s-“

Arms wrapped around him, and he was jerked away. Lydia had to muffle her sob by slamming a hand against her mouth. Throwing herself back so she was tightly pressed against the wall, she sank down, no longer able to stand on her feet. Another ledge that jutted out just above her head partially concealed her.

A new face appeared at the cliff edge. It was Darius. Handsome features sharp, he was as deadly and beautiful as a hawk, seeking out its prey. Fortunately, he didn’t have the bird’s sharp eye, so when he peered down, he didn’t see Lydia, and pulled away again.

“Where’s the Banshee?” Lydia heard him demand. He was met with silence. Then, there came a resounding slap, followed by a sob. “Where’s the Banshee?” he repeated.

“Gone,” Lydia heard Stiles seethe out through gritted teeth.

“Who did I just hear you talking to? Two people threw themselves over that cliff.”

“It was just me. Me, myself and I. Good old, lonely Stiles.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I swear, it’s the truth. Ever since Isaiah made me lie to her, Lydia’s hated me. The second we got away from the Nemeton, she took off by herself.”

There was a moment of contemplating silence. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We don’t need her anymore. We can tell the humans to kill her on sight now that we’ve got you.”

There came the sound of furious, gut-wrenching struggles- the wet _thwump_ of an elbow meeting flesh, a choked cough and blood being spat out from split lips. Lydia heard Stiles cry out “ _No!”_

“Oh, come on now Stiles,” Isaiah said, his sinister voice floating down the cliff edge to meet Lydia’s ears, taunting her. “You knew the deal. Run away, we kill her. So don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me like this is my fault.”

“Victim blaming?” Stiles panted out “Seriously?”

Isaiah let out an amused huff. “Come along then. There’s so much we have to do, and not very much time to do it in.”

There was a brief scuffle, and then Stiles let out a cry. The next sound that came was that of a heavy body hitting the ground. Lydia let out a strangled sob. Cackles followed, then receding footsteps. After that, there was silence. There was silence, and then she was alone.

***

Stiles woke up alone. When he checked, there was no strawberry blonde by his side. His only companions were a pounding headache and sticky blood dribbling down his face. The bastards had knocked him out again. _Again._ Stiles was getting really sick of it. He tried sitting up, but realised his hands were tied. He was propped up against a tree, chest strapped to its trunk and mouth stuffed with a gag. He rolled his eyes, because of course he hadn’t had the full authentic kidnapping experience yet.

Bunching his legs up to his chest, he blinked several times to clear the sticky film blurring his vision- once it was wiped clean of smears, he realised he was at the Nemeton again. That, and he wasn’t as alone as he had once thought. Vampires prowled the area, and humans were there too- they looked enthralled from the way bland faces lacked expression, and how they continued to dig at the ground despite their hands being raw and bloody.

Maybe that’s why the old tree had attacked the vampires before. They were digging up the Nemeton, trying to kill it in a sense. But why? Stiles thought back to the man Melanie had been talking about. Could it be they were trying to free him because he was buried beneath it, or something along those lines? That made sense. The Nemeton was a good place at keeping things trapped- his run-in with the Nogitsune had taught him that. Without realising it, he shivered.

He got his mind back on track. So they were trying to dig someone up, and they had to get it done soon. That explained why there were so many enthralled humans at work. When he counted, there must have been around two dozen. All random people who just so happened to be out in the woods- it was a wrong place, wrong time sort of situation. _Story of my life,_ Stiles thought. He noticed there was another police officer there too. She must have been the other cop’s partner.

Suddenly, a crack reverberated through Stiles’s ears. A crack, bones going snap. He flinched. Then came the heavy, slightly muffled thump of a body hitting a bed of dead leaves. A death bed. It took Stiles a moment to realise he had just imagined the noise. Well, maybe not imagined it. _Relived_ it. He swallowed back his guilt over the old cop’s death, and continued to survey his surroundings.

Isaiah had said they didn’t have very much time left. Why was that exactly? What was the countdown for? The only major event Stiles could think of was the Winter Ball. And then it occurred to him. The Winter _Solstice_ Ball. They needed to conduct whatever ritual they were using to free this mysterious man during the Winter Solstice. Shortest day of the year and all that, it must have meant it had spiritual relevance. Stiles had been right when he figured the day to be Sunday, which meant the Solstice was mere hours, perhaps minutes, away. Maybe it already was here. He shook his head in dismay, realising he didn’t have very much time left at all.

He began to struggle against his bonds. He didn’t have to worry about Lydia anymore, not now that she had in theory safely run away. The thought that she could have slipped and fallen off that cliff was unbearable to him, so he didn’t linger on it. Instead, he just hoped, _prayed,_  for the best.

“Trying to escape, are we?” came an arrogant drawl from behind, and Stiles’s features immediately transformed into ones of contempt laced disbelief. Isaiah. Of course it was Isaiah. Hands snaked around to roughly pull the gag from his mouth.

“When are you going to realise that people don’t actually like being kidnapped?” Stiles snapped as soon as he could speak, still tugging at the rope looped around his wrists “Unless they have Stockholm Syndrome, of course. And trust me, I have no inclination to fall in love with you any time soon.”

Isaiah chuckled darkly, stepping out from behind the tree and coming to crouch down just in front of the younger boy. “You do amuse me Stiles. Greatly amuse me.”

“I see what this is. Flattery. Still not head over heels for you, bro,” he quipped back. He would have indignantly folded his arms across his chest but, you know. 

“What I would do to clip off your tongue,” the vampire sighed, dragging disappointed eyes across his face. Stiles went silent at that. “Oh, do threats work better for you than flattery? I figured as much.”

“Nah, I was just thinking about how I could kick your ass if you hadn’t put me in these freaking cliché restraints,” he bit back “Like seriously? Tying me to a tree? Couldn’t think of anything more imaginative?”

“You are most definitely more amusing when you have your wits about you,” Isaiah smiled, moving to sit cross legged. He braced his elbows on his knees, and tilted his head. “Shame I’ll have to enthral them away if you keep trying to escape.”

Stiles let out a growl at that, but immediately ceased his attempts. “Can’t you just get it over with and kill me? I hate tension. Tension makes me feel all _tense_. I hate it.”

“Oh Stiles, don’t worry, the wait isn’t long now,” Isaiah hummed, flashing him a smile that was all teeth. “But I’m afraid, we won’t be killing you. More like... using you as a passage between life and death.”

“Passage between life and death?” he echoed, enunciating each word with as much cynicism as possible.

“You see, Mr Stilinski, your current life has come about from a series of very _fortunate_ events,” Isaiah explained, and Stiles scoffed at that. The vampire quickly corrected himself. “Fortunate for us, anyway. See, when you and your friends made that sacrifice and reawakened the Nemeton, inadvertently you were left behind with something else. Something besides darkness in your hearts.”

Stiles stiffened, and swallowed. “Yeah, an open door to our minds. Catch up Isaiah, that was last year. You missed this whole Nogitsune possession thing. It was great."

“You joke about it because you are scared of it happening again,” the vampire stated simply. How the hell did he know about that? How long had the vampires been spying on them? Stiles shifted, suddenly uncomfortably bare and stripped of his defences in every way. Isaiah cocked his head at him again, smiling softly at his stoicism.

“But that isn’t quite what I was referring to, I’m afraid. See, when you crossed back from death to life- rather flippantly, might I add- it established a sort of connection within you between the two. That connection is what allowed the darkness to seep into your heart and corrupt it. And it’s a connection only you and two others have. We have your lacklustre alpha Scott, and the dear sweet Allison, who passed away so tragically.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles snapped, lurching against his restraints once more.

“Obviously taking Scott would be too difficult a task, him being the big bad wolf that he supposedly is. And Allison’s _dead_ , so that’s clearly a no-go. And then there’s you, Stiles. The only human of the Pack, the boy who died. Who should be dead. Instead, you live.”

“I’m not Harry Potter,” Stiles deadpanned.

“I hate pop culture,” Isaiah sighed “But I think you’re starting to piece it together now, correct?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know? You’re a Harry Potter fanatic who wants to give the last film a grand re-enactment?”

He earned a fast, searing slap across the face for that.

“Try again,” the vampire said sweetly.

Stiles grit his teeth, setting his jaw bitterly. “That man Melanie was talking about before. He’s dead, isn’t he? And you want to bring him back to life using me somehow.”

“Mmhm,” Isaiah bobbed his head up and down patronisingly.

“But why can’t you just bring him back to life like you did with me? You know, feed him your blood?”

“It’s not quite as simple as that when the person we are trying to bring back is already one of the undead.”

“He’s a vampire? Like... the king of all vampires or something?”

Isaiah sniffed with discontent. “You teenagers put things so terribly. Think it more as our... creator. Our Revenant.”

“Revenant?” Stiles repeated slowly, swallowing the word with a disgusted twist to his lip. Clearly the vampire didn’t realise quite how melodramatic the name sounded.

“Derived from the Latin ‘ _reveniens’._ It means returning,” Isaiah smiled proudly “Appropriate in every way, don’t you think?”

“You’re killing me in exchange for his life, so no; it’s not appropriate. Sacrifice would be a better word for it,” the younger boy ground out bitterly. “Or flat out murder.”

“We’re not going to kill you, for god’s sake,” Isaiah rolled his eyes “We’ll be tethering your life to his.”

Stiles froze. Cold settled into his skin then, making his blood frost over into ice. He shivered, and he could barely whisper out the next words through his choked throat. “What do you mean?”

“He is dead when he should be alive. You are alive when you should be dead. By connecting the two of you, we can find that balance- a balance where you are both not quite alive and both not quite dead,” Isaiah explained. He wetted his lips, smiling at Stiles’s clear revulsion, before going on. “Eventually you’ll die, of course. That kind of bond to death is far too powerful for a mortal to handle. But don’t worry Stiles, it’ll be slow. Probably painful. And the closer you come to death, the more alive our Revenant will be. It will be a gradual process. So yes, you won’t be dying just yet. More like a couple of months, maybe years, down the line.”

“Why?” Stiles interrupted. He was trying his best to ignore the fear clutching at his heart, digging its claws in deep and poisoning his blood. Jutting his chin out, he set his features coldly. “Why all of this, just for some douche bag in the ground? I heard what Melanie said- she said he hurt you, that he-“

The slap that came next slammed his head back into the tree, and then the world was spinning and bouncing around manically like a bizarre pinball machine. Stiles blinked heavily a few times, head lolling up to the sky and mouth open wide as he gasped in agony. But he barely had enough time to recover before Isaiah was in his face again, eyes searing into his. The nauseatingly pleasant sensation of slipping into a trance settled over him once more.

“Apologise for speaking so spitefully about him,” Isaiah hissed, pinching Stiles’s face between his fingers which dug like needles into the skin.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles felt the words squeeze themselves out.

Isaiah narrowed his eyes, contemplating him for a moment. “Now choke on your own tongue.”

Stiles’s eyes bulged and his chest started to convulse as his tongue went heavy and thick, pressing against the wall of his mouth and stretching. The lining of his throat seemed to become swollen. His air supply was cut off immediately. Isaiah laughed delightedly, eyes wild and big.

“You asked me before why there aren’t more of us. Do you remember that?” he continued as if nothing had happened “It’s because, much like werewolves, we need an Alpha. And there is only one, for the entire race of vampires. Without him, no new vampires can be made and we are a dying breed. However, _with_ him we are stronger. And that, my friend, is why we must bring him back.”

Stiles’s vision started to haze around the edges, the black of the forest becoming more of a grey. His eyes started to roll back into his head. Isaiah, noticing this, sighed a dissatisfied sigh.

“Stop that silly choking business now, Stiles. Honestly, I’m disappointed. I thought you’d last at least a bit longer before passing out.”

Stiles gasped air in frantically, causing Isaiah to giggle. He giggled, he actually fucking giggled. The younger boy’s face contorted with scornful incredulity as he glared at the vampire. The glare didn’t last long though, because a moment later he had turned away and was throwing up. All that came up was bile that scorched his throat with its acidic touch.

“I’m just finding alternative ways to torture you now that Lydia’s gone,” the vampire hummed, inspecting the sick with grim satisfaction on his face “Though I will admit we haven’t been feeding you very well, have we?”

“You haven’t fed me, period,” Stiles wheezed out, voice horribly hoarse.

“Let me remedy that. We have to have you in peak condition for the ritual,” Isaiah said, climbing up to his feet and disappearing for a moment.

Stiles took that moment to pray for himself. Himself and Lydia and everyone else in the town. Because something was coming. Something likely to kill them all. And he would be helping it. That thought repulsed him more than anything else, and he almost wished he had died just those few moments ago. Almost wished. But, because he was selfish, he didn’t actually want to die- even when it could save everyone else. There had to be another way out of this. There _had_ to be.

But for some reason, his normally brilliant mind had gone blank. He couldn’t think of any solutions, any resolves. All he could think about was how this was all his fault. Lydia had told him once that he was the one who always figured things out. He wished he could hear her now, feel her comforting touch. He didn’t dare wish she was here with him now, of course. He wouldn’t wish that upon anyone in the world, especially someone he desperately cared about.

When Isaiah returned, for the first time with food, Stiles just looked at him, utterly defeated. The vampire sat opposite him, taking up a similar position as he had done before, and pushed a takeaway bag to his feet. Stiles didn’t move to take it.

“Eat,” was all the vampire said.

“I’d rather starve and die than help you,” Stiles replied quietly, the words sounding like a lie even to him “And besides, my hands are tied.”

“Don’t pretend to be brave, nobody wants to die. Why do you think I became a vampire?” Isaiah said, leaning forward to tear off the rope binding the human’s wrists. Stiles rolled the joints around for a bit, mouth twisting in muted pain, but still didn’t make a move towards the food. “If you don’t willing eat, I can easily take the role of will away.”

Stiles hastily took the takeaway at that. He frowned down at it, before asking: “How do I know you haven’t drugged it?”

“Now, why would I do that?” Isaiah answered sweetly “The ritual isn’t much longer away. Can’t have you sleeping through it now can I?”

“Fine,” Stiles grumbled, taking a bite out of what appeared to be a very greasy burger. Fat oozed out of it, slicking his lips like he had just applied balm to them. He winced. It wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. Actually, it wasn’t better than nothing. If he died of starvation now it would clean up this whole mess.

“Also, I brought you a change of clothes,” Isaiah said conversationally, pulling out from behind his back some clean jeans and a plaid shirt. Stiles realised they came from his own wardrobe, and felt ice slither down his back. Had they been to his house? Had they done something to his father?

“Why’d you bring those?” he asked, reluctant to actually hear the answer.

“Well, once the ritual is done, you’ll be sticking around with us for a while. And we can’t have you smelling appallingly if that’s the case,” the vampire explained pleasantly.

“Shit, okay, let me get this straight,” Stiles said, dropping the greasy burger to the ground with a wet, slimy plop “You’re going to attach my life to a dead alpha vampire dude’s, and then traipse me around for safe keeping because what, if I die he dies too? At least until the transition from life to death is complete, anyway. I hate how this all actually makes sense to me.”

“Correct,” Isaiah grinned, eyes motioning to the rest of the food in the bag “Keep eating.”

“How’d this guy end up dead anyway?” the other boy asked, grudgingly digging his hands back into the bag and pulling out some equally greasy fries. He popped one into his mouth and chewed its paper-like quality robotically.

“I said before that nature needs to balance itself out. Some druids and emissaries sensed that the vampire race had become overpowered, and decided to imprison the Revenant with the help of some others,” the vampire replied coldly “Melanie was not the only vampire who disagreed with the Revenant’s methods, nor do hunters only go after werewolves.”

“What’d he do to you guys that was so bad?” Stiles inquired, words coming out more sluggishly than he had intended them to.

“He made us kill our families. He tortured us. Bent our wills like metal, made us malleable,” Isaiah explained, all playfulness from his voice gone. His jaw went stiff and eyes cold. “Only then, when he knew we were the very best, the very most enduring, did he make us his own.”

“Sounds like a psychopath,” Stiles slurred.

Isaiah considered him for a moment. “Maybe.”

“Wh-why d’you want him back then?” he asked and, unnoticed by him, the takeaway bag slipped out of his hands “Unless... you’re all... like,  _brainwashed_ or somethin’.”

“He makes us stronger,” Isaiah said robotically, but something twitched in his expression. He sucked in a sharp breath, before saying: “You’re looking tired.”

Stiles jerked up the head he hadn’t realised had drooped down, and peered at the vampire through hooded lids and hazy eyes. “You... drugged... me. Whyyyy? You proomised.”

“You were sleep-deprived. And like I said before, I need you in peak condition for this ceremony. You’ll die otherwise,” Isaiah drawled.

The vampire watched the other boy amusedly as his head drooped down again and he went slack, leaning heavily against the ropes still partially binding his body.  Stiles weakly lifted his eyes up to Isaiah’s one last time. The vampire grinned, and raised his eyebrows, sweetly condescending.  Stiles let out a shuddery sigh, and then his mind went blank. Darkness swallowed him, no matter how desperately he clutched onto light.


	10. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia struggles with the guilt of leaving Stiles behind; the Ritual finally takes place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, another long chapter! Once again, this is nearly 5000 words and omg that takes a hella long time to proof-read, so forgive me if I've made any mistakes. I feel like this chapter is definitely iffy/confusing in parts, and I'm really not satisfied, so if you have any questions, please do ask :) I am also worried I made Lydia seem a bit OOC but I'll just see what you guys think
> 
> Sadly, I have fallen behind in my writing. Normally I write a whole chapter between posting, but I got stuck on Chapter 13. Fortunately, I still have 2 chapters in reserve, and I have nearly finished 13 now. I'm also pretty certain Chapter 15 will be the last one :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! You've all been so supportive and lovely, its makes me freaking GLOW every time I see you've been reading. And of course, hearing your thoughts on the chapter is always immensely gratifying, so I'd love to hear them again :) Thank you!

Lydia gave herself five minutes. Five minutes to think in, to breathe in. The first minute she spent falling apart. The second minute she put herself back together again. The third was to staunch the tears, the fourth to set her jaw. And in the fifth minute, she thought of Stiles.

She thought of his eyes. She thought of the way they were brown until suddenly they caught the light, and trapped all the warmth and gold and glow of the sun within their shimmery depths. She thought of his smile. It was silly and cynical, always paired with either a sweetly sarcastic remark or soft words. Either one made her heart melt. She thought of his movements, coltish and gawky and boundless in their energy. She thought of his rough edges. She thought of the sweetness that softened them.

She thought about all of these things, all of these features- these features she had memorised and never wanted to forget, these features she always saw and still only wanted to see more of- and then her minute was up.

She took a shuddery breath in, and let a steady one out. She dragged herself back up to her feet, brushing away the last tears on her cheek. And then she started to move.  Move up the cliff-face, with a hardened jaw and salt crusted eyes.

She would have felt scared, except Lydia wasn’t scared of much anymore. The worst had already happened, and things could only get better from now on. But that was wishful thinking, and wishful thinking was likely going to get her killed, or worse- give her hope. Hope, delusional hope. Hope that she could actually redeem this, that there was a way out, that she could save them all.

When she did finally manage to reach the cliff-top, Lydia found herself strangely unrelieved. Mostly because of the numbing influence adrenaline had on her senses, but also because part of her had almost wished for her not to make it. It was a dark thought, but she couldn’t help herself. Dying now would make things a lot easier. But Lydia Martin was a fighter, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to let Stiles Stilinski down. She _couldn’t_ let him down.

Lydia pulled herself up to her feet once more. She spotted the Jeep parked up further down the cliff edge immediately. After quickly scanning the area for any stray vampires and finding it clear, she darted over and was thankful to find it unlocked, just as Stiles had said it would be. Plopping herself down on the driver’s seat, she managed to find the keys fairly easily.

“’Kay Roscoe baby,” she muttered to the Jeep as she shoved it into ignition “We’re going to go home, then find Daddy.”

She could practically hear the sarcastic remark Stiles would have made to that- something along the lines of it being incredibly kinky, your typical teenage boy innuendo stuff- and she smiled despite herself. Patting Roscoe’s dashboard affectionately, she jerked the rustic old Jeep into action and shot off into the woods. The engine spluttered a couple of times, wheezing metallically, but kept itself sturdy and on track.  Grinning, Lydia slammed her foot down on accelerate.

The vampires shouldn’t have underestimated her. They thought they had doused her spirit, her flame- little did they know that even the smallest of embers can set a forest ablaze. They wanted to bring her down? She was going to go down, crashing and burning- and they were going down with her. Because yes, Lydia knew this was a death wish. It was a death wish and she didn't care because she was going to save Stiles.

But she had to find the others first. She needed to make sure that even if she died in the process, someone else could do the fighting for her. That, and she needed her friends. She just needed her friends. She needed arms wrapped around her small frame, and a cup of hot chocolate to curl her fingers around- kind words, warm hearts. Her friends. And then she realised was crying again.

Blinking furiously, Lydia tried her best to keep her attention on the road. She had finally broken through the thicket and was back driving on concrete. She silently thanked the powers that be for Stiles having recently got Roscoe fixed- the poor thing wouldn’t have been able to cope with the off-road had it been in its old state. Thankfully it wouldn’t be much longer until she reached civilisation- if she didn’t account for any complications. Complications such as enthralled humans ordered to kill her on sight. Fortunately, she didn’t encounter any of those. Maybe Lydia’s bad luck was about to run out. That was if she and the Jeep managed to keep it together.

“Hold out for a little longer, you piece of crap,” she ordered Roscoe, tightening her grip on the steering wheel to emphasise the point “For once in your life, _be reliable._ Or I swear to god, I’m dragging your ass down to the rubbish heap, and Stiles isn’t here to stop me.”

Roscoe complied begrudgingly. The Jeep choked on her own crude oil a couple of times, and guzzled down way more petrol than she actually needed, but eventually Lydia and her crappy companion made it back to Beacon Hills. Without her phone, she had no idea where the others would be so made her best estimate and headed over to the Animal Clinic. And maybe her bad luck really had run out, because it turned out everyone was already there.

Lydia spotted Scott’s motorbike a mile off, and hastily parked up in the small lot. Slamming the Jeep’s door shut, she sprinted over to clinic, hands shaky and delirious with relief. When she reached it, she threw the door open and came streaming in to find everyone collected around the operating table. Panting heavily, eyes wide and hair a cluttered tumble of strawberry blonde curls, she didn’t say anything for a moment. Everyone turned to her, staring. Their mouths dropped open. The girl stood before them was familiar, yet still oddly unrecognisable. Of course she was. The always perfectly put together Lydia Martin, and here she was- completely fallen apart.

“L-Lydia?” Scott was the first one to speak, and sounded almost disbelieving. She pressed her lips together, and nodded slowly. When Scott pulled her into his arms, she realised she had been crying the entire time. His shirt was quickly damp from where it was pressed up against her cheek.

“Thank god Scott,” she whispered, burying herself further into his embrace.

“Where have you been?” he asked, lightly pulling back “Where’s Stiles?”

Lydia tried to say the words, but suddenly it all felt overwhelming. So much had happened. So much was _going_ to happen. Where the hell could she start? She opened her mouth, moved her lips. But the words weren’t coming out. She just couldn’t believe she was safe again. _Actually_ safe. And Stiles wasn’t.

“Lydia... Do you want to sit down?” Dr Deaton asked, tone consoling as always. He motioned to a seat. She nodded again and quickly took it, grateful to be off her feet. “Now. Do you want to try telling us what happened?”

“Too much has happened,” she whispered, slowly meeting the Doctor’s gaze.

“Where’s Stiles?” Malia demanded, speaking for the first time. Lydia looked her at wearily, biting down on her lip. She shook her head. The other girl frowned, and whirled away. Lydia still saw the pain flash across her face.

“Lydia, what does that mean?” Scott asked, drawing her back. He crouched down to sit opposite her, taking her hand in his. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Fuck, _I_ don’t know what it means, Scott,” Lydia snapped suddenly, ripping her hand away. Scott looked startled, then wounded, but he didn’t press the issue. The banshee sighed, guilt gripping at her gut. “Look, I don’t... I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s okay,” Kira spoke up, stepping out from behind the operation table “We have time.”

Lydia had to bite back the urge to snap again, to spit, to say that actually time was the one thing they didn’t have. Instead, she sharply sucked in a breath, and quietly replied: “We don’t. Whatever they’re going to do to Stiles, it’s bad. And they’re going to do it soon.”

“Who’s they?” Malia asked, whipping back around to face her once more.

“The vampires,” the banshee replied. There was dead silence.

“Vampires?” Scott repeated slowly, frowning. “Like Twilight?”

“No, not like fucking Twilight,” Lydia said, harshly pulling back her shirt to expose the ragged bite marks scarring her neck. Everyone went quiet again. “These guys aren’t hot or sexy or old romantics. They’re fucking scary. They’re not just fast, not just strong. They can survive sunlight. They can make you do whatever they want. _Whatever_ they want. They made Stiles- god, I can’t even say it-”

She broke off abruptly, the lump in her throat too sharp to speak around, digging in so painfully she felt she might choke. She let out an infuriated cry, slamming her curled fists down on her legs. Biting down bitterly on her lips, she shoved back the tears. Her ragged nails dug into her bruised, sickly pale skin. She lifted her head up to meet the others’ gazes, grinding her teeth until it felt like her jaw might jut out of place.

“They kidnapped us. They tortured us. They wanted to find the Nemeton, and like an idiot I gave in and showed it to them,” she explained with resentfully twisted lips “They wanted to free some man, I’m not sure who. And they needed the Nemeton and Stiles to do it. When we got there, the Nemeton started killing them- don’t even _ask_ about that, because I’m pretty sure I’m going to have post-traumatic stress for the rest of my life- and we managed to escape. But then they found us again. Stiles... he got caught. He lied, told them I’d run off. They took him. I got away.”

“Lydia-“ Scott started, too consoling and comforting to bear. She hated herself for it, but she just didn’t want to talk to them, any of them, right now. The only person she wanted to talk to was Stiles. And he was gone.

“Don’t. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself anymore,” she said, running a hand through her tangled hair. Every time her fingers met a knot, they raked at it viciously until it split apart, taking a few straggly strands with it. “I feel sorry for myself, I feel weak. I’m so fucking done with feeling weak.”

“You need to rest-“ Dr Deaton tried, but she ignored him.

“No, I need to find Stiles,” she told him, standing up. “We need to get to the woods and find the Nemeton again before it’s too late.”

“Lydia, that’s the problem,” Malia said, voice gruff and strangely hollow.

“What do you mean?” Lydia demanded, going still.

“It was just announced on the news that there was a fire in the preserve,” Scott started to explain calmly, but the tension was thick and quaked his every word “That’s why we’re all here. They found some bodies, and they haven’t identified them yet through the burns but- we thought... we thought maybe it was you or Stiles.”

“Shit,” Lydia breathed, beginning to pace back and forth, hands absent-mindedly threading themselves together then ripping apart “I was just there. If it actually happened, I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“It was only about half an hour ago. They guessed it was just past midnight that the fire was started,” Kira said quietly “We came here as soon as we heard. Guys, what if them sending us to the warehouse was a distraction for whatever they were doing at the Nemeton?"

The banshee went still again. “Wait, what? Warehouse?”

“Yeah, Scott picked up on your scent while we were searching the woods. Went to this abandoned place and found it drenched in your blood. We thought maybe... maybe you were dead. But Malia pointed out there wasn’t enough of it to kill you,” Kira explained.

“That makes sense,” Lydia said, nodding “The vampires drained some of mine and Stiles’s blood, and dropped something off at an old building while we were making our way back into town. I guess it was our blood to throw you guys off our actual scent.”

“Well, they’re certainly thorough,” Malia muttered.

“Yeah, but they’ve drawn a lot of attention to themselves with that fire now,” Lydia pointed out, before realisation hit her “Unless they don’t care anymore.”

But that meant... God, she didn’t know what that meant. Did it mean that Stiles was dead? Had they finally got what they came for? Had they burnt him to death as a sacrifice, or was it all just a coincidence? What did it mean? What did it _mean?_

Lydia tried to keep herself calm. She tried to think straight. She really did. But when the world comes crashing down and you’re shaken off your feet, your first response isn’t logic- it’s panic. Her breathing became rapid. Her vision started to wobble, voices warbled. Then came the racing heartbeat, the blood pounding- everything was suddenly too close yet strangely far away. Overwhelming, underwhelming. And breathing. She could not stop breathing. Fast, fast, fast. In out, in out, in out. Stop, she had to stop, she had to stop breathing.

***

_He stopped breathing. He held his breath. And it was all because her lips were on his. And when you aren’t breathing, it’s almost as if you’re in that state between life and death- you need air to live, but your heart is still beating. You’re completely motionless, even though you’re somehow still falling. Falling deeper into the kiss._

_And_ god, _that kiss. They were swimming in a pool made of liquid sunlight that had spilled into the room, and they were soaked in it through and through. His dark brass hair, her copper curls- all drenched in gold._

_Lydia knew in that minute that people were wrong when they said heaven was in the sky and white and pure.  Heaven was here, in the boy’s changing room. It smelt vaguely of sweat and dripped in sunlight hues and it most certainly wasn’t perfect or pure. But it was real. It was real and the fact that heaven really exists when it’s just Stiles and his lips was enough to make perfection no longer seem so perfect. Pure left Lydia bored, especially when she could instead be lost in Stiles’s messy kiss. Time seemed infinite, but it was only really a matter of seconds, and when Lydia pulled away, she was slow. Lingering and slow. There was beautiful silence, before he spoke._

_“How’d you do that?” he whispered._

_Lydia swallowed, a smile breaking out across her face. “I- uh- I read once that... holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So... when I kissed you...”_

***

“Hold your breath,” a calm voice floated down to her. Lydia’s eyes shot open again, and she staggered forward, slamming into the operating table. Her hands braced themselves against the cool metal, gripping at it feverishly.

“Come on Lydia, you’ve got to slow your breathing,” the voice said again. She nodded absent-mindedly, clamping her mouth shut. Her nostrils flared as she forced a slow breath down her lungs, and then blew it out steadily with a shuddery puff. She repeated the process. She repeated it, over and over and over again. But nothing was working.

And then she thought of his lips again. She imagined kissing them, imagined feeling them taking her breath away. And then the world was suddenly no longer blurry. She could breathe steadily again. Her throat felt hoarse, but she was okay. She was okay.

“Sorry,” Lydia coughed out, throat dry “Panic attack.”

“It’s okay, it’s over now,” Scott said, taking one of her hands in his.

Lydia turned to face him slowly, shaking her head. “No, it’s not. Not until we find Stiles.”

“Lydia, he could be dead-“

“He’s not. I would feel it,” she said immediately. Everyone looked at her remorsefully, disbelievingly. She rolled her eyes, before explaining; “I would have screamed.”

“Oh, right,” Scott said, frowning apologetically.

“So what’s the plan?” Malia asked, brusque as always.

“We go to the Nemeton, search for some clues,” Lydia said, pushing off the table “There might be something there to tell us where he is. I don’t imagine the vamps would have stuck around if there was actually a fire so... we’ll just have to go from there.”

“Okay,” Scott said with a nod “Let’s go.”

***

Stiles had a nightmare. A nightmare drenched in blood and darkness. And when he woke with a start, he found reality to be much the same. The seemingly endless darkness of night lurked around and clung to every corner, shadowing the place with grotesque, writhing shapes. These shadows weren’t faint however- they were thick and stark against the burning amber that choked the sky.

Fire. Someone had set a fire up and there it was, raging away- its red hot tongue licking at the edges of the Nemeton. The Nemeton itself, Stiles realised, had collapsed partially into the ground- obviously from where the enthralled humans had been digging around it before. It had collapsed, but it somehow wasn’t burning.

And laid there, sprawled along its gnarled surface, was a body. Made of mangled limbs and its skin covered with festering wounds and crusty reddish mud, it was barely recognisable as human. Then it occurred to Stiles. It wasn’t human. It was the Revenant.

“You’re awake,” a voice came, and Stiles stiffened by reflex, his body instinctually knowing the sadistic drawl all too well.

“Nice observational skills,” Stiles muttered. The ropes that still tied him to the tree suddenly snapped off.

“Put on the clean clothes,” Isaiah said coolly, pointing to the ones he had laid out before.

Knowing he had no choice in the matter, Stiles rubbed his wrists for a moment. He twisted his lips indignantly, and then proceeded to very slowly put on the clothes. His delayed pace was a petty act of defiance, but at least it made him feel a bit more in control. That sense of dignity almost immediately disappeared when he had to change jeans in front of the smug Isaiah.

“Quite the modest one aren’t you Stiles?” the vampire laughed when the younger boy attempted to angle his body so it was mainly concealed by the tree as he changed.

“I’m not Bella from Twilight,” Stiles snapped, shoving on the jeans and adjusting the plaid shirt with vicious tugs “So I don’t find a thousand year old vampire leering over me sexy. It’s creepy. Age of consent and all that.”

“That franchise gave us such a bad reputation,” Isaiah sighed, flicking off some dirt on his shoulder from his deadly scuffle with the Nemeton before.

“ _You_ give yourself such a bad reputation,” Stiles snapped, finally stepping out from behind the tree, fully clothed and reluctant but ready.

Isaiah let out a harsh laugh, blank-faced and humourless. “How _witty_. Anyway, now you’re actually presentable, let’s begin.”

Stiles gave him a long, grave look. The vampire rolled his eyes and snatched him up by the arm, tugging him forward from the shade of trees and into the Nemeton’s clearing. Once again, Stiles didn’t bother protesting. He was pretty sure that had something to do with the drugs still slinking through his veins, but also the fact he had just... given up. There was nothing he could do now but wait. Wait for the inevitable. The absolute.

The vampires had set up quite the place for a ritual, he noted cynically. The fire burning around the Nemeton consisted of thick wooden torches and wax weeping candles. Also gathered were the enthralled humans who had been digging up the tree before. Their expressions were clear and without distress even as they held a knife to their each and every one of their wrists. Messy, ragged wounds tore their skin. With blank faces, they allowed their blood to drip, oozing and thick, onto the dead tree. The ruby liquid slithered along the Nemeton until it reached the Revenant, where it then began to seep into the cracks fissuring the rotten wood surface around him.

“Quite a nice little sacrificial set up you have here,” Stiles said through a swallow, feeling sick “I take it you’re using those people to feed the Revenant.”

“That, and to make sure you don’t take a step out of place,” Isaiah replied sweetly, ruffling his captive’s hair “So make the wrong move and they’ll stab themselves.”

“I hate you,” Stiles ground out, ducking his head away.

“Hate’s a strong word,” the vampire simpered, continuing to drag him towards the Nemeton. The other vampires had also collected around the old tree, and hissed delightedly as they passed.

“And yet still not strong enough,” the sarcastic boy muttered. They finally came to a stop, just beside the bonfire set up around the tree. His cheeks glowed with the warmth radiating out from the flames. Despite the cool winter’s night, he felt a sweat break out across his forehead- from heat or nerves, he couldn’t tell.

“Careful Stiles,” Isaiah smiled, both teasing and a threat “Remember that you have to do this _willingly_. If you don’t, the Ritual won’t work. And all these innocent people will have to stab themselves.”

“You say that as if you won’t be the one solely responsible for that,” Stiles retorted. Isaiah let out a dissatisfied growl, before flinging a hand out and snapping his fingers against the palm, motioning for one of the nearby humans to hand him a knife. The next thing Stiles knew the sharp, cool surface was pressed against his neck and his mouth popped open.

“Getting real tired of this dynamic where you threaten me constantly,” he managed to stammer out breathlessly “You’ve got me, okay? You’ve got the upper hand by far here, so the knife _really_ isn’t necessary.”

“I know,” Isaiah grinned, slowly shifting him forward so they were barely out of the reach of the flames. The heat was unbearable at this distance, and Stiles hissed in pain. He heard the vampire chuckle, and they moved forward an inch again. “I just enjoy your suffering.”

“You know there’s a diagnosis for that? Sadist,” Stiles said. His breath hitched when he felt a stray flame stroke his leg with its silky, scorching touch.

“Did you know it’s only a minute till midnight, Stiles?” Isaiah asked, ignoring him “Midnight and start of the Winter Solstice. Any reason as to why that might be important?”

“It’s the shortest day of the year,” he ground out, shifting slightly in the vampire’s hold “It’ll have spiritual significance, crappy supernatural stuff, blah blah blah.”

“Mmhm. Though crudely put, that is correct,” Isaiah nodded, smiling grimly “With less light, there is less life, and the more night, the more time there is for the cold and death to creep in. Perfect for our ritual, don’t you think?”

“It’s thoroughly disturbing and creepy, so yes, just perfect,” Stiles grunted out through firmly sealed lips, his pained hisses barely contained.

“Let’s begin then,” the vampire breathed, relishing each word and a smile breaking out across his face.

“What do you want me to do?” Stiles asked reluctantly. He knew perfectly well by now that if he disobeyed, everyone around him would die. With everything that had happened with the Nogitsune and Donovan, he couldn’t stand the thought of having more blood on his hands. Except... what if awakening the Revenant would be even worse? What if there wouldn’t be blood on just his hands, but everyone else’s too?

But he didn’t have time to decide, because the next thing he knew the flames before him parted and he was shoved through, slamming down hands first onto the Nemeton. The fire closed behind him again, and he was trapped on the tree by the blazing cage. Now it was only him, and the Revenant. He squinted through the fire, and just managed to make out Isaiah’s grinning face through the heat waves. The other vampires flanked him now, all looking equally gleeful. The human swallowed painfully, and dragged himself up to his feet.

“Only mere seconds till midnight now Stiles!” Isaiah shouted, hard to hear over the roaring flames. The livid light of fire cast ghastly shadows on his face, hollowing out his eyes and blackening his sunken cheeks. He motioned to the Revenant. “Approach him.”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, and hesitated. Isaiah titled his head slightly, indicating to one of the humans stood nearby. Stiles got the point and slowly, painfully, turned to face the Revenant.

On that wintery night, it was all fire and ice- so when Stiles first properly saw the vampire’s body, he was certain had never felt so cold, even though he couldn’t stop sweating. He began to shake feverishly as he took tentative steps towards the man lying on the Nemeton. Dead now but not for long. When he reached the decayed corpse, nausea gripped his stomach. He had to turn away.

“What now?” he called out, breathing heavily through his mouth. The stench of death was sickeningly thick in his lungs.

“You give him your blood,” Isaiah shouted back. He threw something, a knife. It skittered along the Nemeton’s surface until it came to a rest at Stiles’s feet. He looked at it for a moment, before bending down to pick it up by the hilt. He had to quickly whip his hand away when the heated metal seared against his skin. A haughty wave of laughter rippled through the air around. Gritting his teeth, Stiles went to pick up the knife again.

He lowered himself to the Revenant’s side, barely able to bite back his gags. The smell of warm rotten flesh and musky earth was revolting. Where his knees pressed into the tree stump, blood from the humans began to seep into his jeans. This time, he did throw up- with hoarse, dry sobs and a heaving chest, sweat breaking out of every pore. There came another wave of laughter.

“It’s midnight,” Isaiah called out “Do it now.”

Stiles, not wanting to look at the corpse, kept his head down. Steadying his grip on the hilt of the knife, he went to drag it across his wrist. He paused for a moment, before pressing the serrated edge down. The pain was cold and stabbed deep despite the shallow cut. He had to bite down on his lip to stop the cries desperate to come out. Blood began to blossom out of the wound, beaded and shiny like sinisterly lovely rose buds. He looked at the freshly inflicted cut, fascinated yet disturbed.

 _“NOW STILES,”_ came a booming voice, shocking him out of the bizarre trance. He quickly glanced over to see Isaiah’s face blazing with rage and desperation- and just beyond him, the fire from the torches was spreading. Soon, it looked like the whole forest was going to be set alight. Stiles had to make sure the Ritual was over before that could happen.

Letting out a heavy breath, he forced himself to move his wrist over the Revenant’s lips. Now, he actually had to look at the corpse. And god, he wished he hadn’t. He really wished he hadn’t. Where the skin wasn’t crusted over by blood soaked dirt, it was open with weeping wounds and plump, writhing maggots crawled around. His eyes were closed, but the lids shifted about as if some parasitic larvae were about to burst out.

Stiles let out a choked sob, bile burning the back of his throat. He roughly shoved his wrist at the corpse’s mouth. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the cracked, hard lips parted and latched themselves onto the skin. They began to distort and wriggle as they sucked at it- fat, crimson leeches.

The entire duration of the ritual, Stiles had been fighting his instincts- the voices screaming at the back of his head telling him to run, to never look back, to never go near the creature before him again- but now he couldn’t simply brush them away. Logic out the window, panic leaving him blind and uncomprehending, Stiles began to frantically tug himself away from the parasite. He heard the hisses of protest from the vampires behind, but he had never felt so scared in his life- he was merely a being of instinct now. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t pry his wrist away from the rotten corpse’s lips.

And then suddenly the Revenant’s eyes snapped open. And the second they did, Stiles felt himself begin to slip. Slip into darkness, into nothingness. Rough, mud crusted hands clamped down on his shoulders, drawing him in closer. Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a cracked, weak cry.

The next thing he knew, the pressure on his wrist was gone- only to be replaced by one in his neck. He cried out again. The Revenant couldn’t kill him, he knew that. Otherwise the ritual would fail. And yet, death seemed upon him now.

He desperately tried to blink away the darkness washing over him, but it was an unstoppable force- a tsunami of nightmares and void. The next thing he knew he was dragged beneath the surface, and drowned. Black, watery unconsciousness swirled all around. He tried to take a breath, but there was no air. No air, and no one there. No one there to save him. He was alone. Maybe he was dead. But if he wasn't, that could only mean one thing. The Revenant was alive again.


	11. Can't Be With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Lydia struggle to cope with everything that has happened- Stiles finally comes to face to face with the real enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) I hope you're all doing well! Everyone who has kept going with this fic... thank thank THANK YOU! I'm honestly surprised people are still reading and commenting and leaving kudos. It's so surreal to me :)
> 
> Anyway, I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I think it turned out pretty well (it's nearly 6000 words holy crap). I hope you guys like it too :) Please feel free to leave any feedback/constructive criticism. Words cannot describe how much writers appreciate it :)
> 
> Also... Happy Teen Wolf 5B everyone! Thank god hiatus is over omg and it's already off to an emotional, wonderful start :')

Stiles woke up in the most curious place. He woke up in his bedroom. And on any normal day-which an ironic thing to say, because he was pretty sure normal didn’t exist anymore- he wouldn’t have even given it a second thought. But of course, today wasn’t a normal day. So as soon as he drifted back into consciousness and his eyes opened, he sat up, alarmed.

Light leaked in through the window, white and clean, casting the room with a fresh glow. Beneath the covers, Stiles was wrapped in a warm cotton cocoon and, despite his initial wariness, he couldn’t help but snuggle down into the duvet’s floppy hug again. The pillow against his cheek felt soft, and he wished he could just melt into it and sleep everything away. He felt his grip on reality begin to slip again. But then the bedroom door opened, and he was jolted fully awake.

“Sweet dreams, kiddo?” Sheriff Stilinski asked, tossing him a bit of toast, which Stiles aptly caught. Maybe that was it. Maybe everything that had happened the past two days had just been a dream. That would explain everything.

“Yeah, ‘till you barged in,” Stiles grinned back, relieved to be doing something normal again. He wolfed down his toast, famished. His stomach felt oddly empty, as if he hadn’t eaten much for days. Blinking sleepily, he brushed the niggling concerns away.

“You’re hungry,” the Sheriff pointed out, his brows knitting together “Everything okay?”

“’M fine,” Stiles replied through a chew of cardboard toast- somehow, his dad managed to drain even the most basic food of nutrition. Strangely, he found himself smiling at that fact. He had missed the odd novelty of it. He suddenly found himself frowning again. Why would he have missed it? He hadn’t even been gone a single day. He hastily changed the subject. “Any new cases come up at the station?”

“Just a fire out at the Preserve,” his father replied, folding his arms with a sigh. Stiles furrowed his brow, something brushing just behind his eyes. A memory. A memory that came in flashes. Fire and blood and dying. He had been dying. He had been  _dying_?

Fear surged up in his gut, and suddenly he found himself lurching forward in the bed- but not before Sheriff Stilinski caught him, and set him back again. Stiles fought for a moment, then relented as sense drifted back to him. He was okay; there was nothing to be afraid of. Panting heavily, he looked up at his dad with bewildered eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, slightly dazed “I... I have no clue what that was about.”

“It’s okay,” his father murmured, sitting down next to his son on the bed “They said you’d likely be distressed.”

Stiles forgot how to breathe. It was then that he noticed the blood on his wrist, and the pain in his neck. Slowly, with dread heavy in his gut, he asked his father; “They?”

“Your friends Isaiah and...” the Sheriff’s smile slipped momentarily, before sliding up dreamily again “I can’t remember. But they’re lovely young men. Why don’t you mention them more often?”

“Because they’re not my friends, Dad,” Stiles exclaimed, sitting up and moving to climb out of bed- but then the Sheriff placed a calm hand on his shoulder, and pressed him down again. Stiles glowered at him, the delicious delirium of sleep gone with his memories fully restored. “Dad, let go. I want to go downstairs.”

“They aren’t ready for you yet,” his dad replied, face contorting with almost childish frustration at his son's persistence in escaping him. “They said if you try to go downstairs and succeed, I'll have to kill myself.”

Stiles immediately ceased his struggles at that. He sat back again, pulling his knees up to his chest and leaning against them, wringing his hair in his hands. He couldn’t believe it had happened again. He was trapped again, helpless again, and  _fuck_ he was so tired of that. Tired of all the running, of all the threats, of the knowledge that he was going to die pretty damn soon. And now, with his father in the vampires’ claws... He couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Just piss off Dad,” he seethed through his teeth, the words watery with fresh tears.

“Stiles-“

“ _Piss. Off,”_ he cried out, kicking himself as far away from the Sheriff as possible. He saw his father’s hesitance, his trance-like eyes, before adding hastily with much irritation “I promise I won’t go anywhere. Lock the door if you don’t believe me.”

Normally, the Sheriff wouldn’t stand being spoken to in such a callous way. But once again, this wasn’t a normal day and his dad wasn’t his normal self. So instead of arguing he just nodded, face slackening to the blankness of someone enthralled, and went away.

When he finally heard the door click shut behind his dad, Stiles could breathe again. Gritting his teeth, he held back the hard sobs that had lodged themselves in his throat. Agitated energy spasmed through his body, and suddenly he couldn’t bear sitting still. Flinging off the covers with fury, he threw himself off the bed and began to pace up and down the room. But that wasn’t enough. He needed more than that to let off steam. He needed to do something. He couldn’t stand being so useless, so weak.

The little medal he had won for the Beacon Hills lacrosse game, way back when Gerard had first kidnapped him, came into sight. He whirled on it, snatching the plastic thing up. He squeezed it in his palm. The edges dug in. Not enough. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to crush it, but he couldn’t, so he threw it at the window instead.

And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

Possession after possession, useless thing after useless thing, he grabbed and hurled at the wall. He hated them. He hated himself. He was just like them, after all. A possession to the vampires, so useless he couldn’t even save himself, let alone his friends. Stiles let out a furious sob, collapsing to his knees and slamming his hands down onto the floor.

Anger bubbled through his veins, an insatiable beast. It wanted destruction. It wanted to destroy it all. But worse than the anger was what lay beneath. The hurt. The sadness. The whatever you the fuck wanted to call it. And Stiles fucking hated it. Hated how he was weak, and how it made him weaker still. He  _hated_ it. Another infuriated growl wrenched itself out.

“Having quite the teenage tantrum, aren’t we?” a sinister voice from the door called. Having been so preoccupied, Stiles hadn’t even realised it had opened. He glared at Isaiah with pure, unadulterated hatred. Before he knew it, he was on his feet again, and storming over to the vampire. Much to his fury, the other man seemed greatly humoured when he grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall.

“Why did you bring me here?” he demanded. Being this close to Isaiah, he realised he was slightly taller- and that fact gave him a grim sense of power.

“What a silly question to ask,” Isaiah smirked, infuriatingly smug “This is your house, after all.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Stiles repeated, enunciating each word with excruciating force.

“Because, quite frankly, you stink Stiles,” the vampire replied, crinkling his nose for mocking comic effect.

“Well I didn’t exactly have time for a shower seeing as you kidnapped me,” he snapped back, shoving the older man away. It was then he noticed he was still in the same clothes from the night before, now muddy and bloodied.

“Take a shower,” Isaiah said, nodding towards his filthy state.

“I’m just an animal to put on a leash to you, aren’t I?” Stiles ground out bitterly.

“A wild animal. The kind that really ought to be put down,” the man smiled, utterly chilling “But don’t worry. We’ll just kill your father instead. See, he’s our blackmail. Our ulterior motive for coming to your house. Maybe that way, we can keep you in check.”

Furious, Stiles finally gave in and yanked off his dirty plaid shirt with vicious tugs. “Oh big surprise. You’ll kill everyone I know and love. I get it, okay? I  _get_ it. This whole thing is so repetitive and it’s driving me freaking insane. What more do you want from me?”

“Good question,” Isaiah said, folding his arms and leaning languidly against the wall.

“You gonna answer it? Or just congratulate me on my investigative skills?”

The vampire nodded his head towards Stiles’s glass whiteboard. “Learn to take a compliment. Your father told me you wanted to be a Detective when you’re older.”

“Answer the damn question or I swear to god- I won’t shower and you’ll just have to put up with my teenage boy stench,” Stiles said, glowering to make up for his lacklustre threat.

“Fine, fine,” the vampire abated mockingly “The first reason is obvious. Seeing as my master’s transition still isn’t complete, we’ll have to keep you near and safe for quite a bit. The second reason... well, we’re going back to the old cliché- we’re going to use you as bait for the True Alpha. He has potential to be quite the threat.”

“Where is he?” Stiles demanded, grabbing some clean clothes from his drawer “The Revenant I mean. Not Scott. You better not know where Scott is.”

“We know that Scotty boy is nearby,” Isaiah smirked, peeling back his lips to reveal pincer-like canines “And my master is downstairs, talking to your father I do believe.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles breathed “What did you do to him?”

The vampire sighed, obviously finding Stiles’s father’s safety incredibly boring. “The typical threaten and enthral thing. Now the Revenant is alive again, we’re  _so_  much stronger. It’s almost too easy now.”

Enraged by Isaiah’s complete flippancy, Stiles glared at him for a moment. It was as if robbing someone of their free will was just a casual, not remotely abhorrent thing to do. He couldn’t stand the sight of the vampire.

“I’m taking a damn shower,” he growled, taking him all the effort in the world not to punch the man there and then. When he stormed over to the door, Isaiah stepped aside, shit-eating smirk in place. Maybe a shower actually was what he needed. Maybe then he could wash off the all bullshit that had infiltrated his life ever since his kidnapping.

When the hot springs of water started to jet down on his back, and the heady, soapy scents of cleanliness wafted around, he finally found reprieve.  Wrapped in warm, essence sprayed steam, he realised how much he had missed being clean. And with the roar of water all around, the dreamy bliss that came with it started to settle in. Stiles felt his mind drift, setting aside his troubles for now- troubles like a pair of psychopathic vampires invading his home and taking him and his dad captive. Face contorting, he washed the thought away. Away, down the drain.

Stiles found himself daydreaming instead. In this foggy, hazy room, he felt he could almost have been floating far up in the clouds.

And there, he saw Lydia. She was blurred around the edges, but beautiful as always. Her green eyes glowed and rippled like a sea of emerald trees in the wind. Suddenly, the clouds were gone and he was in a forest- a meadow, to be exact- and he found himself lying side by side with her. Her lips were soft as they slipped up into a tentative smile.

She had always been reluctant with her smiles, he noticed- almost nervous. That was out of place for Lydia, confident and strutting like she was. Or maybe it was just because she reserved her smiles for special people. Stiles grinned at the thought of that.

Though it was merely a dream, he could have sworn he felt her fingers brush his when their hands became linked. He breathed in deeply and the smell of shampoo and Lydia’s ghostly scent, lavender and sun, filled his lungs. Then he opened his eyes again, and shut the shower off. The daydream burst like the soapy bubbles drifting around.

He hastily towelled himself off and vigorously rubbed at his thick hair, soaking up any stray water drops. He then pulled on the clothes he had set out before- another plaid shirt, this time a dark blue and green, with jeans and a black top to match- and left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. When he entered his bedroom again, he was irritated but not surprised to see Isaiah still there, facing away from him. In the vampire’s hands, he held a photo frame.

“Quite the artist isn’t she,” Isaiah stated, stroking the frame tentatively. Stiles said nothing, choosing to remain stood at the door. The vampire seemed unaffected by this, continuing to examine the picture with bizarre interest. Well, not the picture. The drawing. It was Lydia’s drawing of the Nemeton, where Stiles had scribbled the note ‘ _For Lydia’_  on the back.

He wasn’t quite sure why he had kept it. Maybe because it reminded him of the day he and Lydia had first kissed. They had flipped through her notebook of trees after, and he had taken one for safekeeping; once again, he wasn’t entirely sure why. But with Lydia, that was the thing. She always left him confused and entirely questioning, because why was it that he still loved her? Did she really love him?

“Are you going to remove the spell on me?” he asked, voice regrettably weak and pleading. But he couldn’t help himself- to be able to say he loved her again was something he wanted desperately, even now despite Lydia already knowing the truth.

“Maybe,” Isaiah said with a smile, turning to Stiles.

“I did as you said,” the boy replied, still hovering at the doorframe. The conversation had taken on a strange, disconcerting sense of unpredictability.

“May _be,_ ” the vampire sing-songed again. Stiles shook his head, infuriated. He went to move towards Isaiah- to do what, he wasn’t entirely sure- but a hand came down on his shoulder. He turned to see his dad there.  

“He’s ready for you now,” was all Sheriff Stilinski said. Stiles still found himself horrified at his father’s indifference, but swallowed and nodded his head anyway. Shooting Isaiah one last withering glare, he headed downstairs. His father walked just behind. The silence between them was unbearable. Stiles felt he had to fill it.

“He didn’t hurt you did he?” he asked gingerly. It was a question that had been nagging him for a while now.

“No,” his father replied quietly. That would have to do. At least it gave him a little more peace of mind.

That walk down the stairs was probably one of the hardest things he ever had to do. Everything was painfully quiet, yet somehow still deafening. The creak of wood beneath his feet, his ragged breathing- his heart that wouldn’t,  _couldn’t_ , stop frantically beating. Even when the stairs ended and he found himself on solid ground, he still couldn’t suppress the swirling and swooping of his guts, as if he were falling. Not falling. _Plummeting._ Plummeting into a dark, hellish abyss. A hell that was, coincidentally, his living room. Because what did a hell always have and need? A devil.

And there he was, lounging on the couch as if it were his throne and he was watching the whole world burn. Lucifer’s cunning smile in place, the Revenant turned to face Stiles as he came in.

And who’d have thought it, but the devil was as beautiful as he was terrible. Free now of dirt, Stiles could see his face- and it made his stomach drop. It was the most pure shade of white. Ironic, given the filthy smirk spread across his lilac-skinned lips.

With eyes dark enough to make the night seem light, they trapped stars in their mischievous, glittering depths. His hair was black too, but caught the light in a different way. By fragmenting the colours of the rainbow instead of trapping them, each silky stand was like the feather of a raven. And then with his square jaw, cutting cheekbones, he was all masterful angles. Perfect had never seemed so dreadful.

“Stiles,” the man said, speaking for the first time.

Stiles felt himself go still. His skin chilled, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as the Revenant slid his gaze over him. He didn’t know how he was supposed to stand, so shuffled nervously about.

“Stiles,” the Revenant said again, this time with more relish upon the syllables. Involuntarily, the human took a sharp breath. The man, seeing this, let his smile spread. “It’s lovely to meet you Stiles. You did save my life, after all. Come. Sit down.”

Much to his surprise, Stiles complied- perfectly happy to do as this bizarre man said. Though the world and his mind had suddenly become soft and fuzzy, his instincts were screaming at him to be anything but calm and content. He decided to trust them. Instinct had never failed him before. Still, he did sit where the Revenant indicated, on the chair opposite. The man smiled, pleased.

“You can go about your daily business now, Sheriff Stilinski,” he said, eyes not flickering away from the man’s son “Forget this ever happened, please.”

Stiles felt both relief and dread when his dad nodded, and quickly left. His presence had been comforting, regardless of him being enthralled. But at least he was safe. For now.

Swallowing, the normally sarcastic boy continued to shift under the man’s intense, dissecting gaze. He was peeling Stiles back, layer by layer, and Stiles was pretty sure if it went too far, he would be torn and fall apart. It took all of the will in the world for him to set his jaw and keep a steady heartbeat. His time with the werewolves had made good practise for that.

“I appreciate what you have done for me, Stiles. Voluntary or not,” the Revenant began, an idle hand going to his sharp chin “And I do wish to help you, to repay that debt. So, tell me... What do you want?”

Despite being taken-aback, Stiles answered before his mind had time to catch up. “I want to not feel weak.”

“Oh really? Interesting,” the strange man replied, with feigned surprise “I assumed you would want the Banshee, from what Isaiah has told me. I could easily give her to you, you know. Anything to ease you into death more pleasantly, seeing as you’ve helped me so kindly.”

“She’s not an object. You can’t give her to me,” Stiles said, feeling his old, snappy self begin to surface again “I would never do that to Lydia. It’s disgusting.”

The old vampire contemplated him for a moment, tilting his head. “Interesting, again. I do miss talking to teenagers. Such vigour. Now, answer me honestly Stiles. Why are you weak?”

“Because I care too much. I care too much about people,” he answered automatically.

“And who are these people?” the Revenant asked warmly.

The words slipped out of his mouth once again with ease. “Lydia, Scott, Malia and the Pack. My mom, even though she’s dead. My dad.”

“But you don’t like being weak, do you? Why would you want them by your side, if that’s how they make you feel?”

Stiles frowned, trying to wipe the fog in his head away. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I want to know more about you, that’s all,” the Revenant said, clearing his companion’s mind of concern once again “Answer the question, please.”

“Because I love them,” Stiles replied, distantly registering his heart warming and picking up its speed.

“But you said you didn’t want to be weak,” the man pointed out again, lips quirking into a sneer dressed up prettily as a smile “Surely you cannot have those two things at the same time. Surely it makes sense to remove the things that cause you such distress.”

“How?” Stiles asked, brow furrowing and mind not quite comprehending.

“Here,” the Revenant said, leaning over and placing a knife into his hand. Their skin touched for a moment, only a moment, and then Stiles felt all the struggling against the vampire’s will at the back of his head go still. “Maybe this way, you can ease your suffering. Your father is still in the house, so now would make sense. You want to no longer feel weak, correct? You want this, Stiles. You want to do this.”

“I want to do this,” Stiles repeated, rolling the foreign words about on his tongue.

“You want to kill your father.”

“I-“

“Master,” a new voice came. The knife slipped from Stiles’s hand, and clattered to the ground, forgotten.

“Yes, Isaiah?” the Revenant snapped, seemingly irritated.

Stiles blinked several times, utterly bewildered. He realised his head was drooping as if he were about to doze, and he hastily straightened himself again. Everything felt strangely heavy, and it was a physical effort to drag his gaze over to Isaiah. The other vampire wore a curious expression, one his couldn’t quite put his finger on. Had his mind not been so fuddled, he might have been able to.

“I’m sorry, but I- I thought we might not have the time to go through  _those_ kind of proceedings,” the younger vampire put delicately. The other man hummed, deeply displeased.

“Do you question my authority?” he asked with a disturbingly polite tone “Do I not know what I am doing?”

“No,” Isaiah replied, dropping his head. He was terrified, Stiles realised. “I apologise.”

The Revenant seemed to relax, his smile returning. Though he had remained calm the entire time, somehow that was even worse than him shouting. Silence and still were the most horrifying things, after all. Silence was the scream of death, and still was what follows a heart going hollow in someone’s chest.

The Revenant lazily flicked his eyes up to the clock, before sighing in admission. “But you were right, of course. It’s nearly four o’clock. And we need plenty of time to get ready for the Ball.”

“The Ball?” Stiles spoke for the first time in what felt like a while, repeating the words with incredulity. He felt as if he were waking from a sleep, and he couldn’t quite remember what him and the man had been talking about before.

“The Winter Solstice Ball,” the Revenant explained calmly “From what your father said, you bought tickets. You went out a couple nights ago with the Banshee, planning to invite her to accompany you, correct?”

“Well, yeah. That and figure out why this weird ass ghost was following me,” Stiles said, beginning to feel more and more like his old self “But I never got chance to, because you guys kidnapped me. Thanks for that, by the way.”

The Revenant went still. He inhaled sharply. Suddenly, Isaiah let out a rough, forced laugh, walking over to Stiles and giving him a playful smack on the back of the head. The younger boy gave him his most indignant look. Isaiah laughed again, like they were old friends.

“Oh Stiles, you’re hilarious,” he beamed, unbelievably fake “Come on, let’s see if we can find you something to wear!”

“We’re not girls,” the boy remarked, cocking an eyebrow “It’s not going to take five hours to get dressed. Why do you want to go to the crappy Ball anyway?”

“I said come on!” Isaiah ignored him cheerfully, grabbing Stiles and hauling him out of the room and back upstairs before he even had chance to further protest. In fairness, Stiles wasn’t really resisting. Whatever had just happened in that living room... that was strange.

What on the surface had seemed so pleasant at the time now felt deeply wrong. Stiles couldn’t shake this feeling. Like parasites worming and wiggling through his veins, draining his blood with their suckling touch. With a shiver, he followed Isaiah up the stairs.

***

Lydia didn’t know where to go. She didn’t want to go home- she couldn’t look at her mom without thinking about what she had done, sending her own daughter to Eichen House- but she also didn’t want to stay here. She had spent far too much time in the Beacon Hills preserve.

Sighing, she climbed back into the Jeep. Running on three hours sleep and nine cups of coffee, Lydia was thoroughly exhausted and nursing a pounding headache. But she had to keep going. She was determined to find Stiles. He had to be somewhere. She would have screamed if he had died, she had to keep reminding herself.

But her search through the Beacon Hills Preserve had turned out to be pretty fruitless. To make matters worse, no-one from the Pack had found anything either. The woods were also on a lockdown as a result of the forest fire that had ravaged the land. That meant they all had to be extra careful when attempting to search it for clues.

Apparently, Scott had managed to get as far as the Nemeton. From chatting with him over the phone, Lydia had found out the old tree had collapsed into the ground, and that here had been several scorched corpses about. But before Scott had been able to identify them using their scent, he had been found out. The police had escorted him home, thoroughly pissed.  _Stiles isn’t one of the bodies_ , she reminded herself.  _I would have screamed._

“Come on Stiles,” Lydia muttered, biting down on her lip “Where are you?”

Silence answered her. Frustrated, she drove a hand up into her hair and slammed her head back against the car seat. God, too much had happened. Too much, in too little time.

When she had asked Scott how long she and Stiles had been gone, he replied that they had only been missing since the Friday. And seeing as she had been found in the early hours of Monday morning, that meant it had only been three days. Three days. Could that be right? Why did three short days suddenly feel like a lifetime?  

Friday night they were kidnapped. The majority of Saturday they had been passed out until the evening, then on the Sunday Stiles had been tortured- Lydia shuddered even as she recalled- and they had rested briefly before going to find the Nemeton.

It really had only been three days. Three days, if that.

The thought made Lydia feel sick. Her stomach started to convulse and she had to remind herself to breathe. In through the mouth, out through the nose. That’s what Melissa had taught her to do after she had some trouble stomaching her food. She had spent the rest of Sunday night (or Monday morning, really) on the McCall’s living room couch, bundled in blankets and swamped with hot chocolate and warm foods. She hadn’t been able to eat anything, nor sleep a wink. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a dying Stiles printed on the back of her lids.

Thinking back to how she had lectured Stiles on post-traumatic stress, she was laughing now. She really had no idea. It was weird how it worked, this insidious, skulking thing. It tricked you with hallucinations, twisted each sweet dream until it was a distorted and horrifying. It made you believe that as soon as you said the words, tried to cry out for help- everything you were afraid of, the nightmares, they would all become real.

So, when Melissa had asked her “are you having nightmares Lydia?” she had replied with a pained “no” and a smile.

Lydia decided to pre-occupy her thoughts with something else. Having been unable to part ways with Roscoe the Jeep, the only thing that still smelled of Stiles, being practically an extension to the boy like an arm, she sat in it now. She had wanted to return it to the Stilinski house, but couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the Sheriff stood there, thinking his son had finally come home- only for it to be the girl that had hurt Stiles more than most.

It was selfish of her, keeping this part of Stiles to herself. But maybe she just wanted to be selfish. After losing what felt like everything she cared about in the world, maybe being selfish this one time was understandable. Understandable, forgivable.

She wondered if she would be able to forgive herself. For leaving Stiles with the vampires, even though she had no choice. Because really, you always have a choice. She should have chosen to show herself as he was being taken. She should have stayed with him, and been there to hold his hand and tell him it would be okay, even though it wouldn’t be. But instead, she had chosen to be selfish. She had chosen to save herself.  _Selfish._

Suddenly, Lydia lashed out, slamming her hand down into the dashboard. Pain radiated out from her hand and up the rest of her arm, shuddering through her veins. She swore viciously. She sat in stunned silence for a moment, not quite understanding why she had done that. Gathering the injured hand to her chest, she moved the other one up to massage her head.

Everything was just a complete mess. Not the fun, energetic Stiles Stilinski kind of mess. No, the mess that leaves you confused and lost and with everything you care about tumbling out of your arms. And to think, just a few days ago all Lydia had to worry about was what she was going to wear to the Winter Solstice Ball and if there was a possibility that Stiles would ask her for a dance. That seemed so stupid and superficial now, she cringed.

But that did remind her of something. The Winter Ball was tonight. She wouldn’t be going, of course. The Pack had bigger things to deal with obviously, but... it would have been nice to have gone- to dress up, chatter excitedly to Kira and Malia about the boys at the dance, and actually be a normal teenager for once.

To think that before she had thought normal was another word for discontent. Maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe normal was safety, sanity. Right now, that sounded better than anything else. With Stiles gone, nothing seemed safe and right, and she was pretty sure she was going out of her freaking mind.

As if reality was picking up her train of thought, something caught the corner of Lydia’s eye. Something tucked in the compartment, just below the dashboard. It looked like a piece of paper. Brows twitching slightly with curiosity, Lydia leaned forward to pull the paper out- only to discover instead it was two tickets. Tickets to the Winter Solstice Ball. And, scrawled across the back of one, was Stiles’s fervent handwriting.

A small smile tugging at her lips, Lydia traced her fingertips over the words- over the page dips where he had pressed too hard with the pen, over the smudges of ink that he clearly had tried to rub away, only making the problem worse.  _Typical Stiles Stilinski,_  Lydia thought, grinning.  _Always clumsy even when he’s trying his best._ And then, for some reason, the thought made her sad.

Quickly wanting distraction, she turned her attention to what was written. It was hard to make out Stiles’s handwriting normally, let alone when he had crossed out the lines several times- but she managed to decipher it eventually.

_~~For Lydia. Know we haven’t talked much over the past few months, but everyone else from the Pack has got a date. Guess that just leaves-~~ _

_~~Lydia. I’ll pick you up at eight. Call it a date?~~ _

_~~Lydia, I bought these tickets because I thought it’d be nice to go as friends-~~ _

And finally,  _Hey Lydia. I know we haven’t spoken a lot recently, so I thought I’d try and remedy that by asking you to this Ball. I’ll even buy you a corsage. I know you like that kind of thing. It’s just that I miss talking to you. I wanna fix it. Badly. So, Lydia Martin- will you go to the dance with me? I really do miss you._ _ ~~Love~~_ _Stiles._

Lydia stared at the ticket for a while, trying to process what she was feeling. Tears she didn’t realise were there dripped from her eyes, onto the page. They smudged the ink even more. She took the end of her top, and dabbed it against the smeared words.

“Miss you too, Stiles,” she whispered, hand going to touch the paper again tentatively “I miss you so much it hurts. It  _hurts_. And right now, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do in the world to go to that dance with you-“  her voice dropped down to a trembling hush now “-but I can’t. I want to fix it too, but I can’t. There’s so much I can’t do, so many things I can’t say. And that’s life. It’s a load of crappy regrets and almosts and mistakes. But the can’t that hurts most is the one where I can’t be with you.”

Lydia carefully slid the tickets back into the compartment under the dashboard. And as she did, she couldn’t help but think that this was the end of something. What that something was, she wasn’t sure. What she did know was that it left her oddly hollow in the chest, and in that hollowness, she lost herself- fell into its emptiness.

There came a tap at the Jeep’s door. Quick to brush the tears off her cheeks, Lydia turned to see who it was. It was man, a man she had never seen before. He looked like he had been jogging, from his outdoor attire and the sweat that beaded on his forehead. Lydia thought it was weird he was jogging, because surely he should be in the Hospital. Judging from the amount of blood pouring from his neck, he really ought to have passed out by now. She was oddly detached as she rolled down the car window when he motioned for her to do so.

“Are you Lydia Martin?” he asked with a dead smile.

“Yes,” she replied, swallowing.

“They wanted me to give you this,” he said, handing her a note through the window. The second it passed from his hands into hers, he turned and jogged away again. Lydia couldn’t even work up the energy to frown, or be surprised. At this point, nothing phased her now.

Not even the words elegantly scrawled on the note. Words with a promise of death, and the collapse of her fragile world.

_He’ll be at the Solstice Ball. I really hope you and your friends can make it. Stiles will be very sad if you don’t- he really does want to say his goodbyes before we kill you all._

_Also, remember! Wear your prettiest dress. Make sure to expose your neck._

Signed at the end was a smiley face. Drawn out of blood, it stained the page.


	12. Pretend She's There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Isaiah find themselves reluctant allies- Lydia is grimly determined to bring the vampires down. The Winter Solstice Ball takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write! I've had the visuals in my head for the end of this chapter in particular for a while now :) I hope that it all actually translates onto page lmao
> 
> I can tell you that Chapter 15 is almost definitely going to be the last. Sadly, I've been really struggling to write the last few chapters as I really badly want to write a satisfying conclusion whilst juggling my school workload, so I'm still writing Chapter 14, which is so far 4000 words and is not looking close to being complete- basically, the last few chapters might not be as consistently published as the last few have been!
> 
> Anyway, that being said, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! THANK YOU for all being so wonderfully supportive, each and every one of you! As this fic has gone on, I worry that the quality has declined, which I really hope isn't the case- so if you guys have time, please leave me some feedback/constructive criticism :) It's really, really appreciated! Thank you again!
> 
> Lmao you guys can read the chapter now after this hella long-winded author's note :') Also, please ask if there are any parts/character intentions that are confusing!

The second they were in his bedroom again, and the door was safely shut behind them, Stiles whirled on Isaiah. “Okay, what the hell was that abou-“

His shoulders slamming into the wall cut him off. Isaiah’s face was deranged, his features oddly mismatched- his lips were curled with anger, yet his brow was softened with remorse. Most noticeable were his eyes, big and blue and wide. The fear in them was unmistakable. Fear for himself or the other boy, Stiles wasn’t sure.

“Keep your voice down,” the vampire hissed, stepping back again. Once released, Stiles worked his jaw and rolled his shoulders, thoroughly disgruntled. “He’s listening.”

“Fine, I’ll say it quietly then,” he whispered harshly back “What the _hell_ was that about?”

“You were irritating him,” Isaiah said quietly “Never irritate him.”

Stiles tried to ignore the dread that trickled down his spine at that. “I don’t care. Why exactly does this dude want to go to the Winter Ball anyway? It’s teenage angst galore; it doesn’t really seem like his kind of scene. Plus, it’s in the school gym. And I swear, that place smells so bad my eyes water. Like they actually water. Real tears come out.”

“He plans on taking over the town, and luring your friends out,” Isaiah explained, voice dropping to an even lower hush than before “It provides the perfect opportunity to do both.”

“God, its never-ending isn’t it?” Stiles huffed, walking over to and dropping down on his bed “And can I just say that’s such a cliché villain motive. Like seriously? World domination?”

“He doesn’t want world domination; he wants the town,” Isaiah said “The supernatural hotspot of the earth. With that amount of power at his fingertips... Well, there’s immortality, and then there’s being master of death.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say to that, so remained quiet. He hated himself for it. Hated how he had changed. Since when had Stiles Stilinski not been able to say anything back? Ever since he had been possessed by the Nogitsune and murdered Donovan... something was different about him.

He could see it in the eyes staring back at him in the mirror. He felt it when he trembled with rage. He could see it sometimes in the way Malia and Scott would look at him, almost warily. They wanted the old Stiles back. The one who was just there to be caught up in the crazy whirlwind that was the supernatural life, the one always ready with a plan and scathing remark.

Didn’t they realise? Stiles wanted that part of him back too. He wanted it so badly, it kept him up at night. It twisted guilt like a knife in his gut, left him with distorted dreams and flashbacks of his hands covered in red. The person he was now was someone he didn’t even recognise. He was a monster, a murderer. He hated that person. He hated himself. And now, because of the Revenant, he was helping to kill even more.

“You know, the banshee _\- Lydia._ She asked me once how many people I had killed,” Isaiah announced suddenly, almost sensing his train of thought. Stiles gave him a scornful look. “It was right after you died. We can save one person by using the life of another we have killed. Did you know that?”

“No,” Stiles replied hoarsely.

“Well, despite popular belief, I have only killed one person. We drain those people at the hospital, but we never let them die,” he explained, lips curving into either a grimace or smirk, Stiles couldn't decide.

“Still doesn’t make it any more humane,” he stated bitterly.

“Maybe,” the vampire agreed, folding his arms and staring unwaveringly at the other boy “But aren’t you curious to know who I killed to save your life, Stiles?”

“Do I want to add another name to the list of people who have died because of me?” he retorted, the weight and truth of the words leaving him with a heavy heart “Not particularly.”

“It was my little brother,” Isaiah stated simply. Stiles went dead silent then. The vampire saw his hesitance, and smiled bitter-sweetly. “Did you know I come from Philadelphia? In 1793 there was an outbreak of Yellow Fever. A lot of people died, including my family. After that, it was just me and my little brother Stephen. We were homeless.  We had to beg on the streets.”

Stiles shook his head spitefully, breathing heavily through his nostrils. “If you think this is going to make me feel sorry for you-“

“Not sorry. Understanding,” Isaiah interrupted, his voice dropping to barely audible, deadly quiet “Understanding so we may have a common enemy. Because Stiles, it was on those streets that I first met the Revenant. He was subtle in his persuasions for me to join his side. I didn’t even realise I was being manipulated. It was quick and easy. So the night I met him was the night I died. And afterwards, I adored him. Wanted to do anything for him. So when he saw my brother watching us from the shadows, and told me to kill him... I did it. I wanted to do it. He made me want to do it.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles breathed “That’s not-“

“When my brother went cold in my hands, all I felt was satisfied,” Isaiah hissed, suddenly in Stiles’s face again with vampire speed “And you were about to do the exact same to your father in that damned living room. You’re lucky I stopped you.”

And then Stiles remembered. How could he forget? It had only been a minute or so ago... Only a minute ago, he had been ready to kill his dad. Had _wanted_ to kill him. He thought of the knife that had been placed in his hand, how he had enjoyed the feel of its hilt in his palm. He hadn’t felt weak then. He had felt strong. But if that was strong, he never wanted to feel strong again. He wanted to be sick. It was so goddamn _sick._

“Why? Why would I- why- I can’t-“ he tried to speak, but suddenly words were impossible to say.

 “When you passed out last night, all hell broke loose. The fire from the Ritual burnt half the woods down, and the Revenant made the humans kill themselves. My friends...” the man’s voice shook, and he cut off. Stiles felt a twinge in his gut, and then he started to realise he much preferred an Isaiah he could just hate than one he could sympathise with. “Some of the vampires tried to run. He killed them. He killed my friends. The ones that stayed... we’re essentially his slaves. I realise now what Melanie was talking about. I was simply so blinded by my bond to him I did not see it before.”

“So why don’t you just kill me?” Stiles said abruptly “That way, he’d die too.”

“Oh, I tried. While you were asleep over in that bed, actually. But the Revenant is still my alpha in a sense. His sway over me and the other vampires prevents us from going against him in such a direct way,” he explained, smirking self-deprecatingly “So I need you to do the deed yourself.”

“Kill myself? Great,” Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Not quite. He tried to make you kill your father so he could test his influence on you, Stiles. And unfortunately, for both of us, it was effective. You won’t be able to kill yourself anytime soon- I imagine he’s already planted the order not to in your head. But what you might be able to do is kill _him_ yourself _._ You’ll be close enough by his side to do it, and I don’t imagine he sees you as much of a threat. I’d do the deed myself, except his bond to me as my creator prevents me, and the other vampires are still utterly enamoured with him. They would turn against me if I even attempted it.”

“Fine, that works for me,” Stiles replied, finally able to muster a sadistic grin “Except for one catastrophically fatal flaw in the plan... How do I know he hasn’t already brainwashed me into not killing him?”

“You don’t,” Isaiah deadpanned.

There was a moment of disbelieving silence. Stiles gave him a long, withering look. “You can’t be serious.”

“His influence isn’t like being enthralled. At least then, you’re conscious of it. With him, it’s insidious and very hard to differentiate between his will and yours. You don’t know if your own thoughts really _are_ your own. You can’t even trust yourself, let alone anyone else.”

“That’s reassuring,” Stiles muttered, leaning back on the bed so his head thumped against the pillow.

“Stiles, we need to work together,” Isaiah reminded him, crossing over to the door “Mutual enemy, mutual understanding.”

“Work with one deranged psychopath, take down another,” Stiles retorted “Yeah, I got it.”

“I’m leaving now,” Isaiah sneered, clearly still feeling contemptuous towards him despite their temporary alliance “Get yourself ready for the Ball.”

“Whatever,” Stiles snapped as his goodbye. The irritated vampire leered at him once more before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. Finally, Stiles was left alone to his thoughts.

Still laid on the bed, he bunched himself up into a ball, fingers digging into the duvet. His breath started to come out in erratic hitches, and his hands curled into fists. It took him all the will in the world to swallow his panic and steady his wrenching heartbeat.

What the hell was he going to do? There was no getting out of this. He would have to kill another man again. That, or be killed himself.

Even though it would be the lesser of two evils, Stiles still couldn’t help but notice the bodies were starting to pile up. Nowadays, it was always his life above someone else’s. He was slowly becoming more and more of a murderer. He was the kind of guy his father would put behind bars, the kind of guy Scott and the others fought to stop. He was a _murderer._

His breathing spiked again. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and tried his best to keep his thoughts rational. No, if he didn’t do this, if he didn’t stop the Revenant, there would be even more deaths to weigh heavy on his chest. He knew this man planned on killing or enslaving virtually everyone in the town, so in reality this one murder would prevent countless more. But it was still murder. He couldn’t escape that fact.

Stiles threw himself off the bed, restless and agitated. Checking the clock, and seeing it to be nearing six o’clock now, he decided to get ready for the dance- he didn’t have much else to do anyway. He had already checked for his laptop and phone, but both were gone. He had guessed that would be the case. They wanted to isolate him from the Pack, keep him from warning them about the trap.

Utterly demoralised, he went over to his closet and pulled out the first shirt and pants he set his eyes on. The shirt was crisp and white, the pants plain and black. He spotted a simple tie, and decided to throw that on as well. When he stepped back and checked himself in the mirror, he realised he had chosen the exact same attire he had worn for Allison’s funeral. He grimaced at the cruel irony. It made sense, of course. Somebody was going to die tonight. Whether that was him, his friends, or the Revenant- he couldn’t be sure. But Lydia would know. She was a Banshee, after all. Had she been there with him, he might have asked. But she wasn’t. He was alone.

Defeated, he plopped himself back down on the bed. Without realising he had done it, he had leaned over to take the photo Isaiah had been playing with before. His face contorted as he went to stroke it lightly. Inside the frame, Lydia’s drawing was simple and beautiful. He analysed each curve, each roughly sketched line. He remembered watching her draw them. Sighing, he flipped the frame over to reveal his little note on the back. _For Lydia._ He had been planning on giving the drawing back to her at one point. Why, he wasn’t sure. He had just thought it was a good idea at the time.

Leaning back so he was flat on his bed, he held the frame just above him, and frowned up at his own messy scrawl- such a contrast to Lydia’s elegant hand. Deliberating only for a moment, he then took the drawing from the frame and placed it in his suit’s pocket, careful not to fold or crease it. Maybe if he took it with him to the dance, he could draw strength from it. Superstitious or whatever you might call it, he didn’t care. As long as he had it, he could pretend Lydia was there.

Without realising it, he began drifting off. Winter’s scarce sunlight and long nights hazed his mind, especially today being the shortest day of the year. The Ball was three hours away, so he did have time for a quick nap. It was either that or go back downstairs. And he would never choose to do that. So when sleep beckoned, sweet and innocent, he gladly went into its fuzzy embrace. When he dreamt, he dreamt of someplace safe. Somewhere away from here.

***

“Lydia, are you sure you want to do this?” Kira asked, frowning at the strawberry blonde as she inspected her reflection in the mirror. “It kind of sounds like a trap.”

“It isn’t kind of like a trap. It _is_ a trap. I don’t think they could have made it any more obvious it’s a trap. And yes, I’m sure,” Lydia said, ruffling her freshly curled and sprayed hair with agitation. Heavy eyed and sleep deprived, she was struggling to brace herself to attend this dance. Not only would it require social skills and walking in high heels, but also fighting off the vampires invading the town, who just so happened to be holding the guy she may or may not be in love with hostage.

“This is all going to go to shit,” Malia stated, tapping her converse shoes on the floor. Lydia was pleasantly amused that the werecoyote had chosen to stick with casual trainers and a formal blue dress for tonight’s ball. The strawberry blonde, on the other hand, had gone all out- pearly purple fabric making her a strapless dress, with dark heels and makeup to harden the outfit’s softer aspects. She had been going for the I’m-cute-and-can-most-definitely-kick-your-ass look. Giving herself a quick onceover, she summarised she had most definitely achieved that.

“Probably,” Lydia replied all too jovially, whirling away from her reflection. With her hair, makeup and outfit sorted, she was ready to kick supernatural butt. Admittedly, it was ridiculous that the whole pack was having to dress up in such regal attire for a battle with vampires, but they wanted to keep the whole situation as discreet as possible- that meant blending in at the Winter Solstice Ball and hoping the undead bastards didn’t decide to fight them there and then. That, and after spending three days wallowing in her own filth, Lydia wanted to feel clean and pretty again. Superficial, but she liked looking put together. That way no one could tell she was falling apart.

She’d tried getting some sleep again earlier. Nightmares and flashes of blood was what she got instead. Not only that, but Lydia knew someone was going to die. She could feel it. The Banshee inside was desperately clawing at the walls of her throat, and she wanted to wail until it was bloody and raw. But she didn’t.

She just wished she knew who it would be. Who would be the one to die? A friend, a vampire, a lover- or even herself?

She was worried mostly for Stiles. She had no idea what the vampires had done to him, or who this man they were trying to free was- but it definitely wouldn’t bode well, for any of them. But above all else, she was just wanted to see Stiles again. She _needed_ to see him again. It made her restless, knowing he was likely being tortured and used as bait. At least they would finally be able to do something about it by attending the dance tonight.

She checked the clock, and saw it was nearing half eight. The Ball began at nine. Sudden nervous anticipation shot through her veins, soaking them in adrenaline that pulsed through in painful spikes, immediately accelerating her heart rate. Threading her fingers together, she tried to focus on something else.

“Kira, did you say Scott’s picking us up?” she asked the other girl, who was applying the finishing touches to her outfit- emerald studded earrings to match a celestial silver satin dress and green shoes. Quirky but fashionable, it was Kira through and through.

“He’s picking just me and Malia up,” she admitted apologetically “He thought you’d appreciate being alone for the drive there. You could take the Jeep. If we- _when_ we get Stiles back, you can give it back to him.”

“Yeah,” Lydia muttered, slipping into thoughtful silence once more. Scott was right, of course. She had been wanting to make the journey there on her own. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but it just seemed appropriate. The vampires were solely her and Stiles’s demons to bury, and so she needed to take the rest of the journey alone. That didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate or need the Pack’s help of course. But she needed closure. She needed to overcome the nightmares, the fears. And no one else could do that for her.

“I think I’ll head off now then,” she announced, picking up her purse. The girls had all gathered at Kira’s house, and from there it took around twenty minutes to get to the school by car.

“You sure?” Malia asked, brow furrowing “We’re ready. We just gotta wait for Scott, and then we can all leave together.”

“I need time alone,” Lydia replied, curt despite her best efforts to remain polite. She hastily added; “Sorry. I just... I need to _think._ Sorry. _”_

Kira and Malia nodded solemnly, giving their strawberry blonde friend half-hearted smiles. She returned them with a weak one of her own, before heading out of the house. Parked up outside was the Jeep, and she hopped in. Working the Roscoe’s rusty old system was becoming second nature to her now, and so she was able to easily shove it into ignition and shoot off down the road towards the school.

Sat in the Jeep, with his familiar smell still wafting about, Lydia’s thoughts were consumed by Stiles once more. Though it hadn’t been long since they had last seen each other, maybe even less than twenty-four hours, she still was apprehensive about seeing him. And goddamn it, Lydia was allowed to be a teenage girl every so often. So yes, she was looking forward to seeing him in a suit, and him seeing her in a dress. But she did have to keep it in mind that he might not even be there. It might just be a complete trap. He could already be dead. _I would have screamed, s_ he reminded herself feverishly, _I would have screamed._

The trip to the school didn’t take as long as she would have liked, so she arrived at Beacon Hills High ten minutes early. Despite that, people were already there and walking in- some cuddly couples, others excitedly chatting friends. With the vampires still very much posing a threat, she hoped they would okay. She hoped they all would be okay.

Parking up in the school’s lot, she decided to sit and wait until the others arrived, keeping an eye out for Stiles or any of the other vampires. Careful not to tear her dress, Lydia sunk down in the seat. She narrowed her eyes, inspecting the people walking into the school gym. No-one particularly stuck out. No vampires, no obviously enthralled humans. No Stiles either. She had to admit, she looked quite a bit like her partner in crime in that moment. All narrowed, calculating eyes and quick deductions, sat concealed in the Jeep from a distance.

_“Detective duo,” Stiles murmured, a soft smile tickling the corners of his mouth “That’s what Scott always likes to call us.”_

That analogy seemed pretty accurate now. Despite herself, despite everything else going on in her life... Lydia smiled.

The others arrived five minutes promptly after she had parked up. In that time, still no one suspicious showed up. That was both reassuring and disheartening. Reassuring because maybe they could avoid a bloody massacre at the school Winter Solstice Dance. Disheartening because that meant they still couldn’t be sure whether or not Stiles was okay. Sighing, Lydia pulled herself out of the car and went to greet the others.

“You got any news?” she asked as she approached.

“Nope,” Scott said, shaking his head as he helped Kira out of the car his mom had leant to him.

“Well, did Deaton give us any tips on how to kill them?” she asked.

“Nope,” Malia chimed in, clambering out the back seat, before tossing her a wooden stake that Lydia caught with ease “Just stake through the heart, I guess.”

“So we’re just charging in without a plan _or_ a proven way to kill them,” Lydia said, scrutinising her lacklustre weapon and becoming more and more dismayed.

“Yup,” Liam said, strolling up from behind. The strawberry blonde resisted the urge to put her head in her hands and flip out.

“Great, really wonderful,” she muttered, tucking the wooden stake down the side of her dress so it was concealed, and turning away to stalk up the pathway to the gym. She could practically _hear_ the others rolling their eyes, but she didn’t care. They still followed behind her anyway. When they reached the doors to the gym, they hesitated.

Lydia, uncertain not for the first time that day, turned around to face the Pack. Malia, Kira, Liam, Mason and Scott looked apprehensive but resolute as they nodded back. There were more than a few of them missing, Allison and Stiles most noticeably. Missing, but the ghost of their presence still there. Swallowing thickly, Lydia pushed open the gym doors, and went in.

Neon hues and throbbing strobe lights immediately drenched her in bizarre Technicolor- her strawberry blonde curls were dyed blue in the light, her emerald eyes exchanged for amethyst pink. The air around was clammy, thick. The heady aftershaves and perfumes of adolescents desperate to impress was laced with hot, keen sweat. It was charged. It was electric. Music pulsated, alive and beating, the heart of the room. It was hard not get swept up in the delirious delight emanating from every single person around, alcohol and teenage hormones drugging Lydia with exhilaration. She sucked in a sharp breath.

“We should split up,” Scott shouted over the drunken singing of the music and crowd. He handed her a drink that had materialised in his hand, and she took it reluctantly. “That way we have a better chance of finding him.”

“’Kay,” Lydia called back. She gave him a stern, reassuring look. “Take care of yourselves, okay?”

Scott nodded grimly. She took a quick sip of the punch. Then, glancing over the sea of people once more, apprehension heavy in her gut, she dove into the waves.

It was hard to breathe with it being so compact amongst the clumps of writing bodies, all swaying hypnotically. The air was too thick now- every breath she took felt like a swallow of warm water. Flashing from black to neon light made the world come in flickering movie frames, and Lydia felt herself gripped by disorientation. This wasn’t good. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see anything properly. How the hell was she going to find Stiles here?

She managed to stagger over to the bleachers, and made her way up to them- that way she could get a proper view of the gym. Through the wooden slits, she could see liquor-lipped couples aggressively making out beneath the bleachers, giggling as they clutched at each other’s flesh. She scrunched her nose up, turning away and taking another sip of her drink. Scattered all along the steps were even more drunken teens, red cups loosely gripped in their hands. Lydia couldn’t understand why the teachers hadn’t noticed anything. Practically everybody was out of their minds drunk, and bearing in mind the Winter Solstice Ball was supposed to be a family friendly occasion, that wasn’t a good sign. Unless...

She looked down at the cup in her hand. She swirled the contents of the punch, trying to make out the liquid in the throbbing lights. From what she could tell it was purple. Purple and deep, with a singular flower petal swishing around inside. Flower petal? Her heart dropped to her stomach. Wolfsbane. It was Wolfsbane.

Lydia began frantically searching the crowd once again, but this time not just for Stiles- for all of her friends. She quickly spotted Kira, swaying about uncertainly and face contorted in pain. She started forward- meaning to make her way down from the bleachers to the floor again. But commotion at the front stage stilled her feet. There came the static of a microphone, then someone tapping it. She dragged her eyes over to the person, and the cup slid out of her hand. Liquid onyx splashed out, dribbling down the steps. 

“Sorry to cut celebrations short friends,” Isaiah called out with a grin, raising a glass of Wolfsbane punch in his hand. The music died, and everyone turned to him. It went quiet. It went still.

“We’d like to introduce a very special guest,” the vampire announced, spreading his arms out melodramatically, and Lydia cringed. _He really does enjoy being centre of attention,_ she thought bitterly.

Her thoughts were cut short when a strange man, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, stepped up to take centre stage. He had eyes as black as sin, and an equally devilish grin. Vampires flanked him, around twenty of them, all Lydia recognised from the hospital. But no Stiles. Where was Stiles? Where the hell was Stiles?

Lydia’s heart was hammering so heavily in her chest, she swore its beat could have filled the silence of the entire room.  But it didn’t have to, because then the man spoke.

“Hello,” he started out, very calm and polite, voice like oaky wine. Poisoned wine. He began to scan the room with a considerate eye, and Lydia realised she was still stood up on the bleachers, sticking out like a sour thumb. She quickly ducked down. Then, with absolute quiet and baited breath, she began to make her was down the steps, hoping to god she wouldn’t be seen.

She managed to spot the rest of the Pack amongst the crowd as she did so. She wanted to scream at them to run, to at least hide. But it seemed their minds were already gripped by the Wolfsbane’s sedating effect, because all they were able to do was stand there and tremble. How could they all have been so stupid? Drugged punch- it was a total cliché. Stiles would have scolded them.

But the Wolfsbane punch didn’t explain Kira. As a Kitsune, she shouldn’t have been affected. But what if the vampires knew about Letharia Vulpina- the drug they had used to knock the Nogitsune possessing Stiles out- as well? For once in her life, Lydia was glad she was merely a Banshee and not a ‘proper’ supernatural creature. At least then all the Wolfsbane did was leave her mildly drunk- for now, anyway. Hallucinations may or may not kick in later.

“Isaiah, find the Werewolves. They’ll be the ones passed out,” the man said to the other vampire, eyes still cast out to the entranced crowd “And lock the doors. We can’t leave any witnesses.”

The quiet was deadly in the room. People stared up, completely befuddled, at the man. Who was he? Was he the man Isaiah and the others had been trying to free? Had they finally done what they came to Beacon Hills for? Did that mean Stiles was dead, now that they had finished with him? _I would have screamed, I would have screamed, I would have screamed,_ Lydia chanted in her head.

The quiet in the crowd was suddenly broken by a sharp, shrill scream. Lydia quickly checked herself- but it wasn’t her who was screaming. It was someone else. And then other screams chorused in, from all around. It was horrific. Shrieking, crying, _so_ much _screaming._ It was the song of death, the song sung by those who knew someone was going to die. She recognised it because the Banshee inside was desperate to join in. And then the still, like the quiet, came crumbling down. Everyone started to move, surging and crashing towards the exits. Lydia froze, face drawn in terror.

The man at the microphone sighed.

“This evening could have ended so much more pleasantly,” he stated, before raising his hands to the ceiling.

With a light flick of the wrist, the doors slammed shut. Everyone was locked in. They were trapped, trapped like pigs in a slaughterhouse. It was going to be a bloodbath. And there was nothing Lydia could do about it. Her hand went to her mouth. And just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, the strange man raised his arms again.

The bleachers beneath Lydia’s feet began to shudder and creak. Slowly, with dread, she looked down. Cracks started fissure across the surface. She let out a low, hoarse gasp. And then there was the sound of tinkling glass, and her eyes flew over to the windows. They were shuddering, about to smash. Supernatural pressure pulsed through the room, robbing Lydia of air.

The screaming all around heightened to a deafening pitch. All she could hear now was white noise. And then suddenly, she was screaming too. She couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it. And made of screams, cries, there came the Banshee’s song- a horrific melody, the most terrifyingly beautiful lullaby. The lullaby that eased you into death. Someone was going to die.

And then Lydia felt the crack. She felt the crack of wood beneath her feet, and then the bleachers exploded under the pressure reverberating through the room. She was lifted off her feet. For a moment, she was suspended. Floating, flying. Time slowed. The windows that had been shuddering before blew apart, spraying deadly showers of iridescent diamond knives in all directions, and she found herself caught in a hurricane of glass and splintered debris.

Lydia looked around wide-eyed as she flew. Time still seemed to be at a near standstill. And then she saw him. She saw Stiles. He was struggling with a vampire holding him back, stood in one of the dark corners of the room. She saw him, and he saw her. His mouth opened, her name shaping his lips. She wanted to say something back, but-

All of this took place in a matter of seconds, or less. And so, just as she was about to cry back, time sped up again, and Lydia felt her body be sucked outwards with the blast. The swirling whirlwind of glass and splinters and people, just like Lydia, suddenly slammed down, and she didn’t even register hitting the ground. Everything just hurtled into black. And she was gone.


	13. Rising Out Of The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the Revenant's attack and subsequent roof collapse, Lydia and Stiles fight for their lives- but the death and destruction is far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I've been lying to you guys this entire time! Looks like there's going to be 16 chapters of this fic, because Chapter 14 turned out waaay longer than expected and I had to split it in two. Btw, we've reached the climax now, and I hope I've written a satisfying conclusion for you all :) This chapter was definitely a struggle, but now its finished I think it's all come together nicely! 
> 
> THANK YOU for all being so wonderful. I'm immensely grateful :) It's still amazing to me that people READ my writing, let alone give kudos and leave such nice comments. The highlight of my day is definitely reading what you guys have said.
> 
> This chapter in particular, I really want to hear your reactions and how you think the rest of the fic is going to pan out! So if you have the time, please let me know what you think! :D
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

Here, it felt safe _._ Here, it felt warm. She wished she could stay. She wasn’t sure where here was, or even who she was, but that was okay. Everything was okay. So why was she crying? Why were her clothes wet in patches? Had she split something on herself? She couldn’t remember.

Sudden pain spiked up in her leg, and she felt cold replace the warmth from before. Panic surged upwards in her chest, bringing a fresh round of tears. She let out a wail, and curled into herself. She willed the feeling away, and so it went. She was thankful that it did. It was warm and safe again. Strange how it felt that way, seeing as it was dark all around. And the dark meant danger- that’s what she’d always known, ever since she was a kid. So why did it feel safe?

She sighed sleepily, and decided to prod the cloudy barrier separating consciousness and her. When the pain she felt before returned, she hastily whipped her hand back as if burnt. That’s why it felt safe in the dark then. Darkness was sleep and fantasy- waking was reality, seeing the light again. And all that brought was pain.

Here, it felt safe. Here, it felt warm. But it _wasn’t_ safe, and it _wasn’t_ warm. It was death, and she was dying. She realised that. She knew was going to die if she didn’t wake up, if she didn’t feel the pain. But _god,_ she didn’t want to. She had had enough. Feelings _hurt._ And she’d much rather feeling nothing at all than what was on the other side of that barrier.

But life was refusing to let her go. The pain that came with consciousness kept bobbing back up to the surface, and she kept shoving it down. That formed a strange sort of balance. She felt both too tired to wake, yet too tired to keep playing this game. She kept at it for another couple of minutes, until she heard someone shout out something. Shout out her name. Did she have a name?

_“Lydia!”_

Shove it down, shove it _away._ She didn’t want to hear it, she didn’t want to wake. She desperately clung to the nothingness, and still she was being pulled away- pulled towards the pain. She didn’t want pain. She wanted numb.

_“Come on, wake up.”_

_Go away._ Those were the words she wanted to say. But she couldn’t quite form them. She let out a hoarse sob, fingers digging into the ground. The ground? In the darkness, there was void. There was meant to be nothing. So why was there ground?

_“Please.”_

This time pain came and stayed. Light filtered in and darkness faded. It hurt. It hurt like hell. But she allowed herself to be pulled, and when her eyes opened, she didn’t close them again.

And then Lydia remembered her name. Someone spoke it. Someone just above her, but she couldn’t quite see them. It was still all too blurry.

When she had passed out, there had been screaming. Now there was silence. No screaming, just silence. The occasional sob, or hitched breath- glass crunching beneath feet.

Lydia tried to move, but found that she couldn’t- she was partially buried beneath a pile of debris. Pressing hard and cold into her back was the gym’s wooden floor. There was something wet seeping down her head, and on her leg. Lydia blinked a couple of times, trying to clear her vision. All she saw was blobs of light, lens flares, colours merging into one like an oddly beautiful and cluttered rainbow.

Eventually, through sleepy blinks, everything cleared. Shapes slotted into place, and the person’s face from above her swam into the picture. Stiles. It was Stiles’s face, and he looked like a masterpiece. Clear eyes, supple lips- a jaw line defined and curved in all the right places, with elegant cheekbones that rivalled even the most expertise sculptor’s design. But those things weren’t what would have made him a masterpiece in an artist’s hands. It was his expression. Because art is at its most beautiful when tragic and broken.

He was distraught, bleary eyed and features strained. The pain Lydia saw in him then was unlike any other she had seen before. It made her heart surge and ache, made her feel like maybe she wasn’t quite so hurt- not compared to him, anyway. She wished she could make it better. She wished that she could take away his pain. That’s what Scott always did. He held someone, and somehow was able to make it go away. She lifted a fumbling hand to his cheek. He shook his head, and she let it drop again. She noticed with numb that she had left the skin red. Red with blood. Lydia whimpered.

“Shh, shh. I know it hurts, but you’ve got to keep quiet,” Stiles whispered, his hand going to brush away some hair splayed across her forehead.

“Why?” Lydia asked, voice hushed both by pain and what Stiles had said.

“They’re nearly back,” he replied, breath hitching “They’re killing anyone who escaped.”

Lydia wanted to ask more, say more, but she felt too tired. She let her head drop back. Stiles made a hoarse noise, and then began to shift the rubble that she was partially buried under. That helped. She hadn’t realised it before, but she hadn’t been breathing properly. There had been a slab of wood and crumbled rock on her chest.

Once the debris had been moved, Stiles gathered her up into his arms. Lydia allowed him, limbs limp and body floppy. She sighed softly when he made to press a kiss to her forehead. Suddenly, his body jerked, and his head veered back. Shots of pain spiked through Lydia at the sudden movement, and she gasped. Stiles let out a furious growl.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, cuddling her closer “Its Isaiah’s spell. I was being too romantic, or however the fuck it works. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Lydia said. She tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite make it. Now propped up in Stiles’s arms, she could finally see what had happened.

And it was a tragedy. There were bodies everywhere. _So_ many bodies, too many to count. Alive or not, she couldn’t tell. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, and the roof above had come crashing down. Where the bleachers had exploded, wood splinters littered the ground. Blood was speckled on every wall, smeared around every person’s mouth.

And peculiarly, Lydia still found beauty in the horror. It sickened her. But it was undeniable how beautiful the white, glittering glass from the shattered windows looked like freshly lain snow on Christmas day. Maybe it was the Winter Solstice now, but Christmas was less than a week away.

Lydia wondered how many had died. She wondered how many more deaths were to come. How were parents going to cope, when their sons and daughters didn’t come home? It was meant to be Christmas. It was meant to be _innocent._ Everyone was meant to go home, give presents, smile and laugh and kiss under the white as snow mistletoe. But instead of smiles there were cries. Instead of mistletoe there would be lilies for the dead.

“Where’s Scott? Where are the others?” Lydia demanded, shifting in Stiles’s arms so she could stand- that was until she felt a shot of pain in her leg.

“Don’t move. I think you’ve done something to it,” Stiles said, noticing her wince, taking her hand in his. She squeezed it tightly, squeezed it hard as the pain shuddered through her. She hoped she wasn’t hurting him. If she was, he didn’t say anything.

“Where are the others?” she repeated through ragged breaths. She looked down at her body, and saw indeed that her leg was damaged. How badly, she couldn’t tell. Her dress had been silky purple before, but where it rest on the wound it was now dyed wet maroon. She tightened her grip on Stiles’s hand.

“Escaped,” he murmured back, wincing slightly as she squeezed “I helped pull them out of the rubble. They hadn’t drunk too much of the Wolfsbane, so they managed to heal and get away pretty quickly. They said they’d come up with a plan to help.”

“The vampires?” Lydia stammered out “What happened to them?”

Stiles swallowed thickly, taking a moment longer to reply than before. “After the Revenant blew the place up, some people managed to escape. They’re- they’re looking for them now. Killing the witnesses before they have chance to tell the town we’re being invaded.”

“Revenant?” Lydia repeated slowly. She suspected she was still light-headed from head trauma and so wasn’t able to comprehend properly.

“The man they were trying to free. Think of him as the alpha werewolf of all vampires- listen, I’ve gotta get you out of here-“

“Why’d he try and kill us? Why’d he try and kill so many people?” Lydia demanded, her voice thick with angry tears.

“He wants to take over the town, eradicate and make cattle of the humans,” Stiles explained hastily, checking behind him “Do you remember all the stuff Isaiah said?”

“Vampires are the superior species, something shitty like that.”

Stiles nodded solemnly. “Yeah, well, now think of it like the supernatural racist bigots of the world. They’re either enslaving and killing people, or turning them into vampires. Join them, or be killed. It’s either one of the two.”

“So why do they want you?” Lydia whispered. She knew she shouldn’t ask questions she didn’t want to hear the answers to, but she couldn’t help herself.

“They’ve- they’ve tied my life to the Revenant’s,” Stiles said, face contorting as if in pain “Lydia, seriously, you need to get out of here right now.”

She allowed him to pull her to her feet, but furiously shook her head when he tried to get her to move. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means my life’s over Lydia!” Stiles exclaimed, suddenly angry “Just _go.”_

Lydia stared at him, long and hard. He wanted her to escape, but she couldn’t leave him. Not again. She had to stall him long enough for the vampires to return, and then they would take them on together. They were as much her demons to bury as his. And she could do it. He made her strong enough to do it. Though her leg was tender from injury, it remained sturdy- not as badly damaged as she had originally thought.

“Stiles,” she said finally, tiredly. “Tell me.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping in submission. “It means... When me, Scott and Allison made that sacrifice, it kind of bound us to death. With that bond, the vamps were able to use me to bring that guy, the Revenant, back to life. He’s leeching off of me. So if I die, he dies too. Until then...”

He trailed off.

“Until then what?” Lydia asked. Stiles shook his head. “What is it Stiles?”

“I’ll never be free,” he said, jaw tight.

Lydia sighed. “Stiles, your life isn’t over yet. They can’t keep you. This can’t be the end. It _can’t_ be.”

“Why is it then?” he whispered, stepping away.

“It’s _not,”_ she shook her head.

“Lydia, please just go,” he said, refusing to meet her eye.

Lydia shook her head again, stubbornly in denial. “It’s not, because you _promised_ me it wouldn’t be.”

“I didn’t promise that,” Stiles replied wearily.

“Yeah, you did! You promised me you’d take me home,” she snapped, trembling with so much rage and fear and hurt she was a thundercloud about to implode. Fat raindrops started to run down her cheeks.

He looked at her then. He looked at her with those eyes, those heart-achingly warm eyes that seemed so cold and sad now, and she felt like she might die, knowing she might never get to see them again. Because she knew exactly what would happen the second she walked out of those gymnasium doors. That second would be the last she would ever spend with him.

And when she realised that, she was certain she was going to fall apart. Too much had gathered up, and now it was all rushing out, forcing the floodgates open, and only a fool would allow themselves to drown by closing them up again.

She wished time would stop. She wished time would give her enough of itself so she could learn how to swim. Because maybe if she swam, she wouldn’t have to pour out, and she wouldn’t have to drown. She could float. She could breathe.

“Don’t you remember?” she whispered. She took a sharp breath, and it was like the tide sucking in before a tsunami. “Because I do. And I actually believed you. So when I finally escaped, I thought you had done it. I thought you had managed to get me back home. But then I was sat in your Jeep at one point, and I was just thinking... this isn’t right. I didn’t know where to go. I could have gone back to my house, but I didn’t, because it didn’t feel right. None of it felt right. And I think it was then that I kind of realised...”

“Realised what?” Stiles asked, reluctant and voice hoarse.

“I can’t _believe_ I’m saying this to fucking Stiles Stilinski of all people but-“ Lydia’s breath caught, and the next words were so open and raw with emotion it was like her chest was pulled apart for all to see her stuttering, swollen heart. “I realised the reason I couldn’t go home was because home was with you.”

Stiles lips parted, shock stealing already sparse breath. And then they were both crying.

He should have pulled her in close. He should have kissed her. They should have forgotten everything, should have let the sunrise mute the colours around to pastels. The room should have gone warm and blurry, and it should have been just the two of them left.

But none of those things happened. He didn’t pull her in. He kept her at a distance. The hellish world around them was still there, and the sky never relented in its absolute darkness.

“I can’t go,” Stiles said finally, through a hard swallow “They’ve enthralled me to stay.”

“Then I’m staying, too,” was all Lydia replied.

Stiles looked at her tiredly, weighted by a world so heavy it made it hard to breathe. Tear-choked lungs and tight chests laboured each and every word. “Lydia. Don’t.”

“It’s not the end because you promised you’d get me home first. And I’m not home yet,” she said, setting her jaw. “Not without you.”

“Just _stop,”_ Stiles snapped “Stop being stubborn for once! Don’t you realise how fucking ridiculous this all is? All of these people on the ground Lydia...”

He took a shuddery breath, throat thick with tears.

“I checked this one guy’s pulse. When I couldn’t find it, I thought my hand was broken- I thought maybe the nerves in it weren’t working, or something stupid like that. I thought there was no other explanation, because I _could not_ feel his pulse.”

He paused, taking another sharp breath.

“And then I realised. I stopped denying it. Lydia, they’re dead. I checked half the people in the room, and so _many_ of them are dead. And if you don’t leave now, you’re going to die too! Don’t you get that?”

“I get it,” Lydia replied shortly.

It dawned on Stiles then. “You’re stalling me. Lydia, why the hell would you do that?”

“They’re not just your demons. They’re mine, too,” she stated calmly “I’m staying as much for me as I am for you.”

“No, you’re not staying for me _at all_!” Stiles exploded, eyes wide and furious. “If you were doing this for me, you would leave. That’s what I want. That’s all I want.”

Lydia flinched. Stiles clenched his teeth at the sight, but didn’t relent- the further he pushed her away, the more likely she was to go.

“You know what I wished for, when I first saw you under the rubble?” he continued in a harsh, choked tone “I wished I hadn’t found you. Because then I couldn’t keep denying it. I thought you were dead too. And in those few seconds I couldn’t _breathe-”_

“Stiles, I’m not changing my mind-“

“-Except this time I wouldn’t have you to kiss the panic attack away,” he added bitterly “If you die, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d lose my mind. Please, don’t do this to me. Please just go. I want you to leave me _alone_.”

Lydia looked at him then, grinding her teeth together.

“Fine-“ she started, and Stiles slumped his shoulders in relief, until the next words came “ _Fine._ I’m not staying for you. I’m being selfish. I’m being selfish because I don’t want to feel guilty. I can’t leave knowing that I could have saved you!”

 “ _Just GO,”_ he shouted, ignoring her, the words ripping themselves out like a vicious growl.

“ _Stop acting like that_!” she was shouting now, too.

“Like what,” Stiles said, voice abruptly flat. He turned away, shutting her out. Maybe that way, maybe by cutting the tether now, he could save himself some of the later pain. It was cruel, selfish. But part of him was beyond caring. The other part though... the other part hated him for what he was doing more than anything.

It didn’t take Lydia long to realise. She saw his turned back, his closed-off stance. She swallowed. The tears on her cheeks were no more. The storm inside was gone, and all it left was broken devastation behind. Raw lungs, crusted cheeks. A place in her heart that was destroyed, an empty home after a hurricane. Finally defeated, she shook her head.

“I guess I’ll go then,” she whispered. She hated herself for it, but the words hitched.

“I don’t ca-“

“We’re not interrupting a lover’s quarrel are we?” a new voice suddenly came. It echoed through the room, hollow and chilling. Both Stiles and Lydia went quiet, and stilled.

When the Revenant stepped into the room, Lydia could have sworn the already dark world dimmed. With his presence he seemed to suck out the light, suck out the life- it left an oddly twisted feeling in her chest. Though they had been arguing before, Lydia and Stiles were one now. In a moment, he was by her side again. Bloodied hands became clasped, and salted eyes locked, their argument from before completely forgot.

The Revenant tilted his head, eyes narrowed and lips parted in thought. He continued to make his way through the room, glass splintering with a crunch beneath his feet. Lydia couldn’t help but wince when she heard something else crunch. Something that sounded an awful lot like bone. The man sighed, inspecting the skull as if it were an inconvenience rather than someone once alive, and kicked the body aside. Lydia swallowed, hard.

“This is all very unpleasant,” he said matter-of-factly, pursing his lips “Not as many as this were meant to die.”

Lydia would have said something. She really would have. But she couldn’t. All she was able to do was watch as he approached with assured, calculatedly slow steps. He was death in a dress-suit and black leather shoes. 

“You know that I have to kill your friends,” the man continued “They’re proving to be irritatingly self-righteous. Or foolish, to use a better word. They’re trying to save all these people’s lives, not realising they can’t nor should. And they seem to be refusing to die themselves.”

He stopped a few metres from Lydia and Stiles, folding his arms and tipping back on his heels. He examined the two and sighed.

“Not all life is valuable, you do realise. To think that to be true is idealistic. And your idealism is delusional. The world does not work in a way that every living thing is equal- there are superior species. Like ours. But you’re young, so I suppose it’s to be expected. If you had lived as long as me, you would understand that.”

“Just because we’re not thousand year old sociopaths doesn’t mean we can’t tell the difference between right and wrong,” Lydia said, quiet but furious. Besides her, Stiles flinched. Something changed in the Revenant’s eyes.

“Little girls do especially tend to be naive,” he sneered through clenched teeth.

Lydia didn’t miss a beat. “Misogynistic bigots do especially tend to be stuck up their own asses.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Stiles, wide-eye and clearly terrified, managed to stammer out an “ _Oh god,”_ paired with something along the lines of _“now is not the time for feminism.”_

The stillness from before shattered. The Revenant sneered; passive aggressive politeness vanishing in an instant, only to be replaced by barely contained feral rage. Lydia resisted the urge to both slap herself in the face and give herself a high five. She was certain that if she hadn’t spent so much time with the smartass Stiles Stilinski, she wouldn’t have said anything at all- let alone something so sarcastic and grating. She couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.

She didn’t have time to anyway. The Revenant had raised his hands again and, much like before, the ceiling started to collapse. Debris rained down, tumbling like concrete comets and slamming down into the ground to leave just as much devastation behind. Stiles threw himself over Lydia, and they tumbled forward - the impact knocking a raw gasp from Lydia’s chest- just in time. A roof tile smashed down where their heads had been only a moment before.

The destruction was over and soon as it had come. The Revenant let his arms drop to his sides again, stepping over the new rubble to peer down at the teens with his eyes in slits. Lydia wondered how he was seemingly able to manipulate the pressure in the air, allowing him to cause such devastation. Then she remembered that Isaiah had been able to do the same on a smaller scale in the Hospital car park. But that still didn’t explain how he was able to do it. Was there even an explanation to begin with? Probably not.

But no wonder the man had been imprisoned, with power like that. He could easily kill them all. Lydia looked up, levelling his gaze. It was smooth, the psychopath lurking beneath the blank surface. And then she realised. Not could. _Would._

“I have heard about you Lydia,” the Revenant began, leering. She didn’t know how to respond to that, so didn’t. Stiles went rigid by her side- they were still sprawled across the floor from their fall. The man ran his tongue along his teeth before continuing. “Banshees are a rare breed. You must taste like quite the delicacy. Like lamb instead of your basic meat.”

“Did you seriously just say that?” Stiles ground out, shifting him and Lydia up to a stand again. Unbeknownst to Stiles, she had managed to pull out the wooden stake Malia had handed her before. She held it poised against her back. “She’s not some farm animal. Besides- chicken’s the best.”

“Oh Stiles,” a new voice drawled, reverberating off the walls “You’re _killing_ the tension here. I’m cringing on your behalf.”

Both Lydia and Stiles went silent as Isaiah approached, his black hair unruly and hands red. Blood was smeared clumsily around his lips and down his chin. Noticing the teens staring, the vampire feigned an apologetic grin, and went to wipe away the stains with the heel of his palm- only for him to make an even bloodier mess. Lydia felt sick. The Revenant chuckled approvingly and he turned back to the teens, pleasant smile back in place.

“Sadly, lamb do tend to die at the hands of wolves, not vampires,” the older man continued, looking genuinely disappointed. Lydia shuddered, digging her fingers deeper into the material of Stiles’s jacket. She noticed he had worn a suit in the end. But all looking at him in it did was make her feel sad, knowing this was likely the last thing she’d ever see him in.

“We don’t have any actual wolves, I’m afraid. And your friends are probably already dead,” the Revenant went on, barely acknowledging Isaiah who had joined him at his side “We’ll just have to go with the next best thing to kill you Banshee. Someone who is still the Pack.”

His eyes locked with Stiles’s, and the younger boy barely had enough time to shove Lydia away before the words passed the Revenant’s lips.

“Kill her, Stiles.”

Lydia felt her heart go still in her chest. It took her a moment to realise what was happening. Only a moment. Then Stiles turned to face her, expression plain and wiped clean of emotion, and she started to run. Or tried to, at least.

The Revenant was quick to flick his wrist, flipping her body through the air. She slammed down with enough force to rip a cry from her throat. She flung her arms out, hands desperately scrabbling against the ground, and she attempted to haul herself back up to her feet. But then hands encircled her ankles, and tugged them out from beneath her. This time when she hit the ground, she didn’t get up again.

Stiles grabbed her shoulder, and flipped her onto her back. She stared up at him, panting heavily. She had dropped her wooden stake in the struggle, and it had skittered across the floor a couple metres away. Stiles saw her looking at it, and then moved to take it. He kept one hand on her ankle so she couldn’t escape. When he shifted back to stand over her, he held it poised just above her heart. Lydia couldn’t suppress her sob. She wanted this to all go away. She wanted to close her eyes. She didn’t want to see what was coming. But she couldn’t.

“Stiles,” she whispered “Don’t.”

His face had been blank before, but now confusion flickered across it. She could still see his old self, struggling just beneath the surface. The hand holding the stake hesitated. Looking at him then, Lydia didn’t feel scared. She didn’t feel terrified, knowing she was going to die. Instead, she felt sad. Sad because she never would say that goodbye. Sad because she still wasn’t home yet. Sad because Stiles had been right.

When that stake went into her chest, Lydia’s death would be fast and over in a moment. But with Stiles, he would die slowly. Slowly, painfully- it would be on the inside, as guilt made him go out of his mind. And it would be far worse than anything Lydia could imagine. And it was all her fault, because she hadn’t run while she still could. It was her mistake, yet _he_ was the one paying for it.

But she couldn’t do this to him. She had to stay alive, for the _both_ of them. She remembered what it was like in those few moments Stiles had been dead. She remembered how she couldn’t breathe until she saw those warm brown eyes open again. She remembered how he had given her air, just by being alive again.

 _“You know what I wished for, when I first saw you under the rubble? I wished I hadn’t found you. Because then I couldn’t keep denying it. I thought you were dead too. And in those few seconds I couldn’t_ breathe _-”_

And maybe that was their thing. Maybe they weren’t together, maybe they never would be- but one without the other meant that they both couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t live, couldn’t even survive. So Lydia had to stay alive, to keep him going. To give him air, to kiss the panic away.

To let him know she would always be there.

Stiles lifted the stake.

“Stiles,” she began, voice catching “I said I wouldn’t leave you behind. I said I was going to be selfish.”

Tears began to form in her eyes. And in his too, she realised. He was still in there.

“I said I was going to stay here.”

Suddenly her throat felt too thick to speak through. But somehow, she still managed to get the words out.

“Okay, so _let me be selfish_. Let me stay here. If you do this, I can’t. I’ll have to go. Please don’t make me. I want to stay.”

The wooden stake began to shake...

“I want to stay because _you’re_ here. I’m here with you.”

...And then it clattered to the floor.

Lydia felt the air leave her body. Relief stole her breath, but that was okay. He was there to give it back to her again. Stiles released his restraining grip, and then she was throwing herself into his arms.

For a moment, everything else in the world was gone, and it was just her and him. Her chin tucked into his shoulder, his arms around her tiny frame, pulling her in. Their words to one another were the only sounds. Everywhere Stiles wasn’t touching, Lydia was numb. She breathed him in, breathed in his sweat and salty tears and crappy aftershave, and it was the best smell in the world. She pulled back from the embrace slightly, just to smile. And he smiled back.

“I do loathe the cliché of love overcoming all,” the Revenant said, breaking the spell. Stiles’s face twisted, and any sweetness left his eyes once more.

Lydia lingered for a moment longer in the refuge that was Stiles’s embrace, before dragging herself back up to her feet. Stiles tucked her into his side, his body as a shield and the hand clasped around hers the amour. Their eyes locked for a moment, firm and resolute. Lydia looked at them then, and she knew. She knew he loved her too.

There was a certain sense of finality when they looked away again. This was the end. Lydia could feel it deep in her bones, and it seeped into her very core. The cold, cloying claws of death wrapped themselves around her throat. The Banshee’s cry hitched on her tongue. Someone was going to die. It was any man’s guess as to whom.

The Revenant was the one to break the deathly silence.

“If killing her directly isn’t going to work, we can simply find alternatives,” he beamed, stepping closer to the teens “Let’s turn love on its head, shall we?”

Stiles and Lydia began to stagger back, but immediately stilled again, as if paralysed, when the Revenant merely raised his hand. Apparently, eye contact wasn’t necessary for the older vampire to exert his enthral. Upon the realisation, hot panic bubbled up like acid in Lydia’s throat. She choked back the urge to scream.

“Stiles, tell me. You love Lydia. But you also hate me. Am I correct?” the Revenant questioned, features constructed into a polite, pleasant mask.

“Yes,” Stiles replied shortly, the words spilling involuntarily from his tight lips.

“Good. That works just fine then,” the man announced, before tilting his head so he was looking directly at Lydia again. Smirk working its way across his curled lips, he said: “That stake you had before? Pick it up.”

Stiles left the Banshee’s side to do so, expression muddled and eyes cloudy. When he was besides her again, the Revenant continued. “The person by your side is not Lydia. Lydia is dead. She died when that very roof above our heads collapsed.”

Still paralysed utterly, Lydia could only watch as Stiles slipped further under the spell, eyes hazing as the illusion set in. His hand suddenly clasped around and tightened its grip on hers. Pain began to shoot out of the skin like red hot ambers from a furious flame, and her bones started to crackle as the grip became crushing. She tried her best to hold back the cry tearing at her lungs.

“You said you hated me Stiles,” the terrible man went on “What do you want to do to people you hate?”

“Stop this-” Lydia tried, but the Revenant needed to only shoot her down with his searing gaze to still her tongue once more.

“You want to kill the people you hate don’t you?” he simpered, eyes deranged with twisted pleasure.

“Yes,” Stiles whispered, his expression growing less confused and more and more enraged. This time, Lydia felt the bone in her hand snap beneath his intense grip, and she couldn’t hold back her scream. Not the Banshee’s scream, thankfully. Not yet, anyway.

“And what would you want to do to the person besides you, taking Lydia’s place?” the Revenant exclaimed, features twitching with pleasure from inflicting pain “You know it to be true Stiles. No way could the real Banshee survive such a horrible disaster. That person besides you is an _imposter_. Surely that makes them worse than even me?”

“Wait, you can’t do this-“ Isaiah started, speaking for the first time. The Revenant turned to him, relishing and slow. There came a whoosh, and the younger vampires protects were silenced when his throat was lacerated in one quick flick of the wrist. Lydia didn’t scream, because it _still_ wasn’t time, not just yet, but she did cry out hoarsely.

 Isaiah looked up at the Revenant, eyes wide and hands going to clutch at his neck. They came away red. He coughed suddenly, and this time it was his own blood that spurted and spilled out past his lips. He staggered for a bit, before his legs just buckled and he slammed down onto his knees.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear your plotting before, you fool,” the Revenant hissed, striding over to the dying man and viciously lashing a leg out to send Isaiah sprawling across the ground. The younger vampire tried to say something, but blood gurgling in his mouth prevented him. The Revenant gave him one last unaffected look, before turning back to the teens again.

Isaiah let out a wail. It was a hideous, pitiful sound. The sound of an animal not quite dead, clutching onto life with grovelling desperation. Lydia suspected he had a matter of seconds, maybe a minute or two at the most, left. Somehow, she knew not even his fast healing could save him from that. Not a blow delivered by someone like the Revenant. She couldn’t help but feel bad for the vampire then. But all Stiles did was watch. Watch, eerily still.  

“You hate this imposter don’t you?” The Revenant continued, ignoring Isaiah like you would do a pest. A rigid hand went to point accusingly at the Banshee. Lydia’s throat thickened, fear heavy in her gut. Seeing her expression, the man said his next words with a pleasured grin. “And you want to kill who you hate. And how can you hate anyone more than this person who dares pretend to be Lydia?”

“No-one,” Stiles whispered “No-one could ever replace her.”

“Kill the imposter then, Stiles,” the Revenant cooed, words as soft as honey trickled poison “Kill her.”

And on cue, Stiles turned to face Lydia. She had never seen him so angry, so sad. Because he thought she was dead. He really thought she was dead. He believed what the Revenant was saying, that she was an imposter. The man’s sadistic enthral had slithered in, and burrowed into his head. It festered away, all parasitic words and sinister lies.

They had leached away the light in Stiles’s eyes. The light that gave him life, that made his goofy smile contagious and his awkward movements endearing- never failing to make Lydia’s heart swell and contract in her chest.

So in that moment then, she could have sworn that not even the night was as dark as Stiles’s eyes. And that would make sense. If all you’ve been used to it seeing the sun, when it’s finally gone, black is an even greater contrast to what was there before.

His eyes used to be golden like the sun. They used to be warm and glowing and safe. But now, with the pupils dilated and grief blowing out the flame that once kindled their light, they were merely cold and dark. Lydia couldn’t see him in there anymore. She couldn’t see Stiles anymore. And she was scared. She was so, _so_ scared of what wasn’t there.

That’s what made it different from before. Before, when he had her pinned down, there still had been something left. Something to make her latch onto hope, to fight with him against the enthral. When she had been fighting, there had been him, on the inside, fighting too. When she had been speaking, someone had been listening. But now there was no one.

So she wasn’t surprised when she felt the stake plunge into her chest. She wasn’t surprised when the Banshee started to scream, cracked and weak. The only thing that surprised her was her smile. Her smile, as the world went dark, light swallowed by the night, and she felt her body sliding down, hitting the ground.

She smiled because she saw Stiles. Because the second that stake went in, the sun had come out again. The sun in his eyes, rising out of the night. The enthral’s illusion had faded once the command was complete. And so it was quite bizarre. Dying was like the dusk between life and death, but somehow she was looking at the dawn.

And then she felt herself fading, fading. Fading like lilac does into morning sky’s blue, like a kiss does when two people slowly pull apart.

She numbly registered arms looping around her, and gathering her close to their chest. When she lifted her head up, she saw it was Stiles.

Of course it was Stiles.

It had always been Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for double-bluffing you guys. Writing this chapter broke my heart tbh.


	14. Strawberry Blonde, Not Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Revenant's sinister plot is on the verge of success; devastation rocks the detective duo's world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD I'M SO NERVOUS ABOUT POSTING THIS CHAPTER
> 
> So I've always strongly believed that words will convey all the emotions poured into them at the time they were written. For me, that's what makes it so cathartic and beautiful, what lifts the words off the page. It's kind of like method-acting, but method-writing lmao.
> 
> I say that because this chapter was really difficult for me to write. It didn't turn out exactly how I wanted it to, but I'm happy with the end result. So I really hope this chapter achieves in making you feel at least something, because writing it made me cry more than a few times. If not, I guess I'm still young and constantly improving. Constructive criticism would be appreciated especially on this chapter therefore :) 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your endless support! The fact you're reading this message means you've gotten through 13 chapters and over 60'00 words of this fic, which is just... insane. THANK YOU <3 Like I've said before, I love hearing what you guys think of each chapter, so if you find the time, please tell me! :) Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Stiles looked at her in his arms. He just looked at her. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe.

And she looked at him. Just him. She couldn’t speak. She could breathe- but it was laboured, rattling.

There was blood on her lips. Stiles wondered why there was blood on her lips. When she smiled at him, even more spilled out. And why was it now that he realised that red was such a horrible colour? Red was the colour of blood. Red was not even close to strawberry blonde.

He moved to take a curl of her hair in his hand. He felt it in his fingertips. Felt it was soft. He laid it down besides the other strands again. Lydia watched him, quiet and pale. There was a small smile playing upon her lips. This time she was in his arms, it was different. Before, he had seen her coming more and more alive. Now... she was fading.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. She went to say something. Instead of words from her mouth, there came more blood. Stiles bit down on his lip, holding back his sob.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” he tried again. He struggled to choke it out. He went to take a shuddery breath, but found he still wasn’t able to do it. His chest began to heave. “I don’t- I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to say. Just please, _please_ don’t go. Please stay.”

Lydia looked sad then. The rueful smile disappeared from her lips. That panicked Stiles further.

“Hey, no. It’s okay. You said you wanted to stay here. That’s all you’ve got to do now. Stay,” he insisted. His hand fumbled about until it found hers, and clutched at it desperately. It was cold. Limp. Didn’t squeeze back his.

Lydia sighed. It was heavy and laboured, shuddery from effort. She closed her eyes. It took Stiles a moment to realise what that meant. “Don’t. Lydia, _don’t._ Keep your eyes open. Come on. Stay. Stay here, with me. Keep them open. I want to see them.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured, speaking for the first time. Her voice was heavy, sleepy. “I looked... I looked at yours.”

“No, no please. Just one last time. Open them one last time. Please, I want to see them again,” Stiles pleaded desperately.

He tightened his grip on her hand. She winced. He realised it was the one he had broken before. He knew he should have pulled his hand away. But he didn’t. He was selfish. He wasn’t going to let go, because if he did, he’d never have chance to hold it again.

And then Lydia said the words. Said the words that broke him. They shouldn’t have. They should have been the ones to make it all okay.

“Love you,” she whispered. She said it idly, and it came out almost muffled, like she was about to fall asleep. But they both knew what sleep really meant.

“No, Lydia. Don’t, _”_ Stiles ordered, finally able to find the strength to pull her close. Jolted by the movement, her eyes slid open once more.

“I _love_ you,” she told him again, green earnest on golden brown. She spoke tenderly, yet each word was stubborn and hard and determined, just like she always had been. Like she _still_ was.

Stiles shook his head, moving down to place a kiss on her hair- strawberry blonde, not red. She took a rattling breath, and then he knew. He knew he had to say it now.

“I love y-“

And then his throat became clogged, and swallowed the words. When he tried again, he began to choke. Then it occurred to him. The spell. Isaiah’s spell.

“ _No,”_ was all he managed to get out.

Lydia knew what his silence meant. She had been sad before. Now she just looked broken. Completely and utterly broken. And knowing that broke Stiles, too. They were two people falling apart- both of their hearts stuttering, not quite working, but in completely different ways.

“No, I just want to say it. I want to say it,” Stiles heaved out “Lydia, please stay with me. I need you to hear me say it.”

He whirled around to face Isaiah. The vampire was practically dead now, crawling across the floor a few metres away. He saw Stiles, and for the first time looked guilty, his face deep set with regret.

“Let me say it,” Stiles cried out to him. Lydia sighed again, going limp in his arms. When the vampire remained silent, Stiles suddenly found himself screaming out. “ _LET ME SAY IT.”_

“You can,” Isaiah croaked “You’re free.”

Stiles didn’t waste another second. He went to cup Lydia’s face, pressing his forehead against hers. Blank green eyes gazed up into his. He began to chant the words frantically. “I love you. I love you too. Please don’t go. Please don’t go away. I love you.”

Stiles watched Lydia patiently, waiting for her to respond. To at least take a breath. She didn’t. She just stared. He shook her gently. Nothing happened. Her face remained blank. He shook her again. Her head fell back, and then she was looking at the ceiling. Her eyes remained open and wide. Red tears stained her cheeks.

It took him a moment to realise. A moment to realise that she was already gone. Her eyes were glassy, smooth green lakes on a windless day. But even then, when she clearly wasn’t breathing, and her heart was flat in her chest, Stiles still couldn’t quite understand. Didn’t _want_ to understand.

“I love you,” Stiles told her again, as if she were going to answer. Maybe if he said it enough, she would come back. She _had_ to come back. His voice was alone in the quiet, cold room. The words echoed back to him, hollow and broken. They were nothing compared to the emptiness in his chest. Why wasn’t it working? It should be working. Frowning, Stiles tried again. “I _love_ you.”

Lydia continued to stare up at the ceiling, vacant eyes never moving.

She couldn’t be dead. She _couldn’t_ be. But she was. But that didn’t make any sense. Because Lydia was _alive._ She was alive, with her blazing green eyes and beautiful, _beating_ heart that was too big to fit inside her tiny frame. She was alive, with her coyly curved lips and cynically narrowed eyes. She was alive when she called him an idiot, when she said she hated him, and when she smiled at him. Told him maybe she didn’t hate him that much, really.

She was a living, breathing perfect piece of imperfection. How could anyone so filled with life be dead? How could those blazing green eyes go blank, and that warm heart cold and still? Why didn’t she tell him she hated him like before? He had been the one to kill her. She should have hated him. Instead, she had said the opposite. Said the most painful words of all.

“Love you, too,” Stiles whispered. She never heard him say it. She was gone before the words had even passed his lips.

And that’s what hurt the most.

He never got to tell her. He never saw her take her final breath. He couldn’t remember the last time their eyes had met. He couldn’t have any of these tiny little things. He couldn’t have any of those last moments shared.

He wondered what Lydia had seen, just before she had died. He wondered if she had felt scared. He never should have looked away to Isaiah, he should have kept his eyes on hers. That way, at least she could have had someone with her as she died. But she didn’t, because he had turned away for that moment. Any other place or time, a moment would have meant nothing. But now it was everything he couldn’t have.

Stiles yearned for one last kiss. One last smile, one last glance. But the time for last’s had passed, and now all he had was a broken chest, and a limp hand in his. It was slippery and wet. The fingers were slack instead of gripping his back. There was no pulse behind the thin skin of that cold wrist. Lydia’s hand felt so small in his, and then Stiles realised. He had never felt more alone than this.

Swallowing, he drifted his gaze back to her face. Blood trickled slowly from her nose. Seeing that, he couldn’t swallow past the hard lump in his throat. He wanted to wipe the blood away, but stopped himself. He would just make even more of a mess. He always made a complete fucking mess.

Lydia’s disinterested eyes continued to stare up, beyond him, beyond the ceiling. Whatever she was seeing, he wished he could see it too. Wherever she might be, he wished he could follow. He would have gone to the ends of the earth for her. But he couldn’t. She was in a place he just couldn’t reach.

Lydia’s cheek remained cupped in his hands, and he gently circled his thumb over the damp skin. Her head lolled in his palm, before her gaze found his again. It was empty, cold. People said eyes are the gateway to the soul. Well, now that gateway was closed. He couldn’t see her in them anymore- but he could see a few more watery red tears had formed. With painful tentativeness, he brushed them away.

Taking a sharp breath, Stiles looked into Lydia’s eyes one last time. Looked at the forests that existed within, the browns interwoven with dark green. Not for the first time, he found himself wanting to get lost in those forests. But instead of losing himself, he lost her.

His fingertips moved over to drift just above her eyelids. As he went to close them, he realised he hadn’t been breathing. Somehow, that felt okay. He didn’t really care anymore. Every time he took a breath, it just seemed to scrape even more out of his already hollow chest. Tears were thick in his eyes and his heart and his throat, and it was all too much. And still, there wasn’t enough. He was numbly aware he was falling apart, but there was no life left in him to care.

When his gentle fingertips slid Lydia’s eyes shut, that’s when Stiles knew. He knew he couldn’t keep living without seeing their green again. Because, _god,_ already he was missing them. Already missing her. He wasn’t breathing, and everything around was muffled, and he could have sworn he was drowning right there and then. Nothingness inundated his lungs, and he was sucked further and further down into the depths of utter despair. He didn’t care. He just wanted to be washed away.

Stiles felt the last of his air leave him, and he slumped. Dropping her head, his own hit Lydia’s chest with a thud. A hard, raw sob wrenched itself from his dry lungs. He found himself gasping for breath. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe._

He threw up. He turned his head away so it wouldn’t hit Lydia, and threw up. Only bile came out. He started to gasp again, gasp for air, for something, anything- a lifeline. A lifeline, because it really did feel like he was drowning. He figured this was his body’s natural reflex. You open your mouth. You try to breathe. Instead, the floods come crashing in, and you’re still drowning. He was practically killing himself, but he couldn’t fight it. Part of him wasn’t really trying to, anyway.

He’d killed her. He killed Lydia.

Still gasping frantically, with fumbling hands he pulled the wooden stake from her chest. He looked at it for a moment. It was soaked red, splintered around the edges besides the tip, which remained wickedly keen. That had been the tip to put her life to an end. Stiles tightened his grip on the stake.

And then he stabbed himself with it.

Or tried to, at least. But he couldn’t even do that. The stake was pried from his hands by an unseen force and then ripped away, tossing it across the floor. It must have been the Revenant. Isaiah had warned Stiles the older vampire had probably already gotten into his head to stop him from doing anything suicidal, but he still let out an infuriated sob.

Somebody tut-tutted from behind him. Stiles’s heart would have dropped, but it had already hit rock bottom. It was anchored there by Lydia.

He didn’t bother turning to the Revenant. He had actually forgotten he was even there. He had forgotten that this all had actually happened. That all of this was real. That Lydia was dead.

Stiles didn’t react when he was harshly yanked to his feet. He just numbly allowed it, eyes wide as he watched Lydia’s body flop when his supporting arms slid away from underneath her. He stood motionless even as he felt arms tug at him again. Trembling, he lifted his hands to his face. He looked at them, not fully comprehending. They were drenched in blood.

He felt himself sway, and then he was slamming down to his knees again. He was dragged promptly back up. But not before he managed to scrabble for the wooden stake again, and swing it back round, aiming for his captor’s throat. He saw the Revenant’s cruel eyes flash, and then his arm snapped. Stiles cried out, grip on the stake going limp. It hit the floor with a clatter.

He felt himself begin to fall again, but the Revenant was already there- snatching him up by the throat. Stiles let out a raw, choked sob as his feet were lifted off the ground and his eyes began to water. But even then, he could still see her, in the corner of his vision. Her fiery hair was an unwavering flame, always stark against all else as it blazed away. As Stiles’s world began to fade, he realised something strange. He realised he’d be okay with that being that last thing he’d ever see.  

But the hand around his neck dropped away, and tossed him far aside. He hit the floor, landing on his broken arm, and Stiles cried out again.

“I’m disappointed in you Stiles,” the Revenant said, glaring down at the teen as he gathered his arm up to his chest. Though his and Isaiah’s plan to kill the Revenant had been roughly sketched out, it was a plan nonetheless- but with his arm broken, and his only ally dead, Stiles knew he had no escape now. The Revenant gave him a smug, knowing look. “I thought you would have more respect for your elders.”

“For... a... bastard... like you? Nah,” Stiles panted out, his jaw tightening.. The Revenant’s eyes blazed, and with a flippant flick to his wrist, he snapped Stiles’s arm again. Another cry. Another flash of pain. Grey hazed the younger boy’s vision, and he had to furiously blink it away.

“I will break every bone in your body, and pluck every string in that little heart of yours until it snaps,” the Revenant snarled, curling his hands into claws “If you speak to me like that again.”

“But you can’t kill me,” Stiles heaved out, nostrils flaring. It was subtle, but he detected a falter in the vampire’s confidence.

Taking the older man’s pause as a brief reprieve, Stiles quickly checked himself- a severely broken arm, a few cuts here and there, but he’d be okay- and then he scanned out for Lydia. He spotted Isaiah first. The vampire was still, as was the girl he lay beside. Stiles hadn’t remembered Isaiah being that close to Lydia before, but didn’t care enough to give it much thought- not when she was there, sprawled a couple metres away, blood still leaking from her nose and lips.

Something drifted through his body then, before settling on his heart. It weighed it down, like ash from a dead fire. _Her_ fire. The fire she had set alight in his chest, with her passion and brilliance and temper. Was that what love felt like? Stiles found himself crawling towards her.

The Revenant smiled, and it would have been consoling had it not been for the ugly glint in his black eyes. He flicked his wrist again, and then Stiles being dragged away from Lydia by an unseen force, across the rubble-strewn ground, no matter how desperately he scrabbled about and clawed his hands into the floor. When he finally stopped moving, he immediately clambered to his feet again.

“What, so you’re like one of _those_ crappy villains? The ones so stuck up their own asses, they can’t stand to have their precious pride damaged?” Stiles spat, staggering slightly, furious tears trembling in his eyes “You fucking piece of shit, you killed Lydia for _that_?”

The next thing he knew, his legs jolted out from beneath him, and the floor slamming against his head sucked away his already starved breath.

“But _you_ killed Lydia,” the Revenant sneered, moving to loom over Stiles.

Stiles stiffened, heart wrenching. He weakly shook his head. “No. No, I-“

“You killed her,” the Revenant said again, smile spreading. He knew he had the younger boy there, knew he couldn’t deny what he felt was the truth.

Stiles dragged himself into a sitting position, slumping against a pile of debris that had fallen. He didn’t try to escape. He didn’t try to go for Lydia. He didn’t try to do anything. He just breathed, in and out, slowly- but even that felt impossible to do. Not without her to give him air.

The Revenant had stopped to examine Stiles, but the younger boy didn’t have the energy to care. He looked out across the room, at all of the destruction; the glinting glass and wooden splinters from the blown apart bleachers and shattered windows- the gaping ceiling, where the silvery fabric of moonlight dripped through, blanketing everything with cold, icy light.

Every time a new body came into his sight, Stiles felt a deep wrench in his gut. There must have been a hundreds of them, probably more. And any of the other students that had managed to escape the Ball were probably being hunted right now. He saw some people starting to stir. He really wished they wouldn’t. If the Revenant saw them, he’d probably order Stiles to kill. And he would. He’d killed Lydia. He would kill any one now. If the Revenant wanted Stiles broken, compliant, that’s what he had gotten.

“Don’t look like such a sulking teenager, Stiles. Smile- we’ve done something good,” the Revenant told him, eyes glittering. To Stiles’s revulsion, he actually felt his features reconstruct from guilty distortion to a creaseless, empty smile. He wanted to throw up again. So he did. The Revenant made a sound of disapproval, a tut-tut to a pet that had made a mess.

Stiles let out a breath, feeling his chest further deflate. Guilt seeped like poison through his veins, tingeing any slither of hope or happiness to bitter self-loathing. He hated himself. Hated how easily he had been overcome, how he was even more of a murderer now.

He would have cringed at the thought, but he couldn’t. He still had on that horrible, nauseatingly empty smile that he couldn’t seem to scrub off his face. It made his features a mask, as fake as the pasty, garish paint slapped onto a clown’s deceptive lips and oily face. He felt he was much the same as that clown- people would either laugh and jeer at his cowardice, or tremble in fear when he came near.

He threw up again. This time, blood came out.

“It does appear my progression from life to death is happening more rapidly than we had expected,” the Revenant pointed out, smiling brilliantly at the puddle of sticky, thick maroon “You’re dying Stiles.”

“Then kill me already,” the younger boy croaked out, leaning heavily back against the pile of rubble behind him. His hands sprawled out against the floor, attempting to grabble onto a stone he could maybe hurt himself with. The Revenant flicked an unimpressed eye to his hand, and sighed.

“Don’t do that,” he told him, and Stiles’s hands instantly went slack. As the command reverberated through his head, it felt like his skull was gripped by two hands, shaking it viciously, and he went to be sick again.

“C’mon, kill me,” he spat out, eyelids sliding partway shut as he struggled to stay awake “You don’t need me anymore. I don’t want to kill anyone else. Please, just- let me go. Let me _go._ ”

“I can’t do that, not until the transition is fully complete,” the Revenant stated, going to crouch opposite Stiles “Besides, this is what you wanted, is it not? When I asked, you said you wanted to no longer feel weak. I gave you that. I gave you what you wanted. And you said you didn’t desire to own the Banshee, so I assumed she was... disposable.”

Stiles ground his teeth, straining to keep his eyes open. “You son of a _bitch_ \- I never wanted _any_ of this.”

“Do not lie to me. You are no longer weak,” the deluded man hissed “You have power now.”

“ _You made me kill her_ ,” Stiles exploded, and suddenly the weight of Lydia’s death was crushing down on his chest. She was gone, she was _gone,_ and it was all his fault.

“Enough of this pointless talk. We have a town to massacre. Get up,” the Revenant snapped, before pushing up from his crouch onto his feet.

Stiles dragged a tongue bitterly across his lips, nostrils flaring. Refusing to meet the man’s gaze, he shook his head.

“Get up _now,_ ” the Revenant ordered again, each word excruciatingly slow and painful to resist. Stiles held onto his own free will for only about a moment longer, before his muscles finally just complied, unable to go against such a direct order.

“You don’t need to drag me along with you,” he seethed through gritted teeth, staggering slightly. As he moved, he heard the sound of something crinkling in his pocket and frowned. He dipped his hand into the jacket pocket. He felt paper, soft and crinkled.

“I can’t have anyone murdering you while I’m gone,” the vampire smiled pleasantly, brushing off some dust from his suit “And I feel you are one quite susceptible to being murdered. Your ignorant insolence is rather insufferable.”

Stiles would have reacted to the snippy comment, but he was too focused on the paper he had just pulled out of his pocket and held in his hand. He stared at it intently, brow furrowing.

_Deliberating only for a moment, he then took the drawing from the frame and placed it in his suit’s pocket, careful not to fold or crease it. Maybe if he took it with him to the dance, he could draw strength from it. Superstitious or whatever you might call it, he didn’t care. As long as he had it, he could pretend Lydia was there._

She was still with him. She was still there.

Maybe not in body, but in thought. And as long as he had that... he couldn’t give up. _Wouldn’t_ give up. She wasn’t allowing him to.

The Revenant was ignoring Stiles now, attention focused on one of the students stirring on the floor. He was probably contemplating whether or not to kill and convert him. Stiles gritted his teeth. His fingers curled around the drawing, and it crumpled in his shuddering grip. Covert and slow, he tucked it back into his pocket. And then he reached down to the floor to pick up the rock again.

Stiles took a step towards the Revenant.

And when the vampire showed no signs of acknowledging him, he took another. His fingers were curled so tightly around the rock, white bloodless skin blossomed up on his knuckles. He set his jaw, teeth clenching.

He took another step. Stiles couldn’t see it, but the man’s lips were quivering- but not with fear. Pleasure. Stiles was only a metre from him now. His hands began to shake. Sweat was hot, thick, as it dribbled down his neck. As carefully as possible, with baited breath and watery legs, Stiles took the final step.

And then he brought the stone down on the Revenant’s head.

There was a whoosh, and he staggered forward, hitting only air. A couple of feet ahead, the Revenant reappeared, grinning manically. Stiles let out a startled sound. He stared at the older man wide-eyed for a moment. And then he whirled around, and started to run.

He heard the vampire’s sharp intake of breath, about to shout out a command, so he quickly threw his hands over his ears. His broken arm screeched in protest, but somehow he was just able to ignore it. Maybe because he didn’t care anymore. And it paid off. It worked. Any words the Revenant spoke were muffled, meaningless.

Stiles felt grimly satisfied at his minor victory, but didn’t relish upon it- there wasn’t time. Hurdling over the debris and bodies, he sprinted over to the gym doors- only to have his escape cut short when he ran into a brick wall. Not a literal brick wall. An invisible, unbreakable one- made entirely by his mind and the vampire’s enthral. How could he have been so stupid? They had told him he couldn’t leave the gym.

A dark, deep-throated chuckle resonated around. Stiles let out an infuriated growl, and turned away from the doors. Keeping his hands tightly braced over his ears, he glared at the man- eyes cold and stony like frost hardened rock. The Revenant raised his brows, intrigued by the challenge. He took a long, assured step forward. His eyes flashed to Lydia’s body, then back to Stiles again. The younger boy swallowed. Tears were hot and thick in his throat, tightening it.

His eyes shifted to the stairwell that lead to the roof of the gym. Maybe he could make it and escape from there. He had to find the others, get some help. That, or find another way to kill himself. Maybe if he managed to find someone, tell them about all the terrible things he had done, all the people he had helped kill, surely they would hate him enough to do it for him. He just had to make it out of the gym first. But how? He couldn’t kill the Revenant. That was for sure.

But he did have one advantage- the Revenant couldn’t kill him.

So when Stiles stabbed the rock still gripped in his hand into his stomach, the vampire paled and fell for the bluff. With inhuman speed, he was besides Stiles again, and the younger boy had been anticipating it. But the Revenant himself hadn’t anticipated Stiles never actually stabbing himself- and so his eyes budged and mouth gaped when the boy suddenly brought the rock up again and stabbed it into his captor’s neck. The Revenant let out a wet, shuddery gasp.

Stiles tightened his jaw, and twisted the rock in further- the dry, crackling sound of bone grinding with stone setting his teeth on edge. And then, shoving the Revenant away, he set off sprinting again- this time, towards the stairwell.

He knew he hadn’t killed the vampire. He was still recovering from his part-time death, but that by no means made him weak. Healing would take a matter of minutes. Or seconds. Stiles didn’t waste them.

When he reached the doors, he wrenched them open and stumbled through- his arms clumsily scooping at the ground as he struggled to regain his balance. Behind him, he heard wet gargling, the spewing of thick, sticky blood past bitterly curved lips. He whirled around to see the Revenant staggering forward, hands clawing frantically at the rock still imbedded in his neck.

Stiles’s eyes met the vampire’s for a moment. It was black on brown, charcoal on gold. There was nothing human in that man’s eyes. Then their gazes broke, and the Revenant ripped out the rock from his neck. With loose arms, he tossed it aside. It skittered across the floor, reflecting light where blood made it red and wet. And then he started forward, lazy and assured and more dangerous than ever before.

Stiles didn’t waste another moment. He swung an arm out, slamming the doors between the stairwell and gym shut, and began to sprint up the stairs with lurching steps.

But had he stopped and waited a moment longer before his escape, he would have seen. He would have seen the movement on the gym’s cold, blood soaked floor.

Movement that would have stilled even him. Movement of something that wasn’t red, but strawberry blonde.


	15. Parasite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain strawberry blonde might not be as dead as everyone once thought; but can she prevent Stiles from making the ultimate sacrifice before it's too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a writer's perspective, I do not like this chapter. That might just be because I wrote it (lol), so I'll just have to wait and see what you guys all think! FORTUNATELY, the next and final chapter should make up for this lacklustre penultimate one. I have really, really loved writing Chapter 16. Writing the final words before the epilogue (which I have yet to finish yet) made me really emotional, but in the best way. I do just feel immensely proud, and feel like I've managed to wrap up this story to the best of my ability.
> 
> However, it seems unlikely I'll be able to post the final chapter next Wednesday. I have exams on both that day and the following, which I'm seriously pissed off and stressed out about. This might mean I'll post the chapter a little late, or on the Tuesday instead :) I will definitely still be aiming for the Wednesday though!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with this fic. I can't believe how lovely you've all been. I would write more, but I'm saving my big thank you for next week's final chapter! As always, if you guys have time, please leave me some feedback/ constructive criticism :) It's always massively appreciated. 
> 
> Warning for this chapter: Suicide is HEAVILY implied throughout. If this kind of thing triggers you, please proceed with caution.

Significant moments. They’re a passing thing. They aren’t even significant, until you start noticing them- and then they’re gone.

Significant moments. She wished she had counted them. She should have added them all up earlier, and figured out what all these little smiles and stolen glances meant. Math was what she was supposed to be good at. He had told her that. So how had she not put it all together sooner?

He had told her that she was smart, brilliant, a strawberry blonde genius. A strawberry blonde genius who had ignored him at first- he was someone she didn’t want to be seen with, a nerdy social disaster just waiting to ruin her.

And then it started to shift. Where he used to chase after her, she began reaching back for him. Secretly she would indulge in his gawky flirtations and cringe-worthy attempts to woo, always relishing the opportunity to roll her eyes but quick to conceal the smile that little shit Stiles Stilinski practically _forced_ onto her lips.

Until one day she let her guard down. She’d smiled freely at him, and she’d been so careless and at ease in his company, she hadn’t even noticed until he was doing it right back. When she had realised that, she’d immediately scowled, of course.

But afterwards, she found irritation was replaced with fondness. Awkward became endearing, bickering became friendly banter and then suddenly her scowling lips were pressed up against his.

Significant moment. Their first kiss.

And it was then she finally decided to start adding it all up. Adding up what exactly it all meant. The skipping in her chest, her agitated attraction whenever he came near- how without him, she was starved of breath, without reason to wake up for the day if she didn’t have a little shot of his sunlight eyes to see it through.

And when she took the time to figure it out, it all made sense- this endlessly complex equation that turned out to be quite simple in truth. It all meant one thing.

One thing that answered all the questions. It explained why she felt the way she did, why she ruffled every time her skin came into contact with his. Why he looked at her like _that_ , and why she couldn’t stop looking at _him._

If only she had figured it out sooner. Figured out that she liked him, and known that he would always, _always,_ like her back. Even with another girl, even on the brink of death. He was hers. And Lydia in the past would have hated to admit it, but-

To be honest, she didn’t really need to add the significant moments up. The answer was already clear.

He was hers. And she was his.

So when life beckoned, she went into its embrace. Because she couldn’t let it slip through her fingers again. Best realise what you have while you have it, and take the opportunity while you can- because someone or something else might take it from you.

This time, when she hit the barrier between consciousness and her, she fought hard to wake, because she _couldn’t_ let it happen again. She couldn’t lose him again. She couldn’t lose herself again.

And then suddenly the darkness around was split apart by light, a slash of white cutting through the black- and through that, the rest of the world spilled through.

Other colours started to blossom besides the monochrome, buds of red and gold and blue, beautiful roses coming into full bloom, before melding into different shapes to form a room.

Warmth swirled around in Lydia’s chest, and from there it began to throb through her veins and spark her senses- every inch of skin was now tingling with aching hot electricity.  The air that had seemed to lighten her limbs before suddenly hardened and became dense, and where she had been weightless she was now strong, firm.

And finally, Lydia began to breathe.

Air was cold and dry in her lungs, but that was okay. It was pouring life into her again. She coughed hoarsely a couple of times, head hazed with nausea- but with each gasp of breath, the sickness began to ebb away.

The shapes and forms from before sharpened, and she could see properly once more. When she finally could, it took her a long, disbelieving moment to comprehend what was directly in front of her. She was still too tired to fully understand. Didn’t really _want_ to understand. So the first words she spoke after coming back from the dead were dismayed, angry, and more than a little confused.

“ _You’re supposed to be dead,”_ she whispered harshly, face contorting.

“ _You’re_ supposed to be dead,” Isaiah pointed out. It came out like croak, rather than his usual silky drawl. He smiled his trademark cocky smile- but it was weak, withered at the corners and cracked from where blood trickled out the split in his ever-paling lips. He was crouched just above her; an arm under her body, supporting it. “Don’t worry though, little Banshee. I will be soon. Won’t that be a _relief?”_

Lydia titled her head, eyes narrowing. Noticing her expression, the vampire nodded lightly to his wrist, which dripped red and hovered just above her lips. She stared at it, uncomprehending. Confusion was too weak a word to describe what she was feeling. Had he given her his blood? Had he _revived_ her?

“H-how are you still alive?” she managed to get out- speaking hard to do with a dry throat and spinning room.

“I’m not, really. My body keeps trying to heal itself, but not succeeding- likely as a result of the Revenant’s magic- so now it’s simply prolonging the agony of death. Which is just great, by the way,” Isaiah explained pleasantly, smirk spreading and exposing a row of bloodied teeth where red seeped into their crevices. His neck was still lacerated, open wounds gaping and steadily bleeding.

“I don’t get it,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “I saw you _die.”_

“No, you didn’t. I merely faked my death for a period, and held out long enough to give you my blood. You don’t stay alive as long as me without learning a few tricks- which sounds horribly ironic now that I say it.”

“Why?” was all Lydia could think of to ask.

“Because I want to give him _hell_ for it,” Isaiah ground out.  Despite his apparent indifference, Lydia realised he really was dying. His skin had been pale before- now it was virtually translucent. She could make out all the curves and hollows to his skull.

“The Revenant? For killing you?” she asked.

“Mmhm,” the vampire replied, nodding languidly “So I’m bringing you back to life. I don’t think the Revenant appreciates you being able to lessen his hold on Stiles. That, and you’re the only one who can kill the old bastard now. With my blood still in your veins, you’ll heal from any injuries- and he obviously won’t expect an attack from someone already dead.”

“What the hell is going on?” Lydia demanded, shaking her head “I thought you were on his side?”

“And _I_ thought you would have figured my motivations out by now,” Isaiah sighed “You’re meant to be a genius.”

“I just came back from the dead. Sorry for not being on top form,” Lydia snapped.

Isaiah smirked at that, but suddenly he paled and his face became strained. His next words came out choked, wet. “Fine. I want him dead because I realise my mistake now. I shouldn’t have caused all of this, by bringing the Revenant to back to life- it’s just like Melanie said. So let me right this one thing. Kill him for me. I don’t want to die a bad person.”

“Bit late for that sweetheart,” Lydia replied, gritting her teeth and sitting up.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten that just moments ago I saved your life, Banshee,” the vampire pointed out, sneering “I could easily change my mind. Very easily.”

“How’s that being a good person thing working out for you again?” she snipped, eyes narrowing at the vampire who was uncomfortably close to her now. Dying or not, she still despised him.“ _And_ you had to kill someone else to bring me back to life,” she pointed out. “Sorry if I’m not feeling hopelessly indebted to you.”

“Oh, I might have fed on a bit of blood earlier, but I didn’t kill anyone,” Isaiah said proudly, pulling back from the Banshee “I killed myself.”

And it was then, once he had leaned back, that she saw the stake from before protruding out of his chest. Lydia’s eyes widened and, despite her better judgement, moved to draw it from him.

Isaiah shook his head and pushed her back, smile becoming even more brilliant- his lips dyed a deep ruby by the blood spilling past them. “Don’t do that. I’ve given my life to revive you. If I don’t kill myself, it won’t work. And you’ll be dead once more. Remember, it’s one life for another. ”

“Why?” Lydia asked again, her voice weak “Why’d you save me? Why’d you save me above yourself?”

“I already told you. I want to right my wrongs. If you kill the Revenant, by saving you now I will have done that,” the vampire explained through heavy heaves of air. He was quickly fading now. “That, and I was going to die anyway- might as well make the best of it. And if I’m dying, that bastard is going right down with me.”

“What about Stiles?” she demanded “He said their lives were tied somehow. If I kill the Revenant, won’t Stiles die too?”

“No, no, the Ritual doesn’t work like that,” Isaiah hurriedly panted out “Stiles doesn’t need the Revenant to survive, but the Revenant needs him- he’s feeding off your little boyfriend’s life. Think of it like flicking off a leech. Save the blood donor, kill the parasite. Should be a TV slogan, am I right?”

“How do I know you’re not just lying?” Lydia whispered, eyes desperate on the vampire’s.

“Oh,” Isaiah laughed, before letting out a wet, hacking cough. Blood spurted out past his lips, and the stream from his lacerated neck began to gush out. Lydia winced, biting back her retch. “I guess you don’t, sweet Banshee.”

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed.

The vampire raised his eyebrows, condescending and smug. Even on the brink of death, he was still an asshole. Just more of a complicated screw-up than Lydia had originally thought.

“Either way, you better hurry. If the Revenant completes his transition from life to death, Stiles is dead anyway,” Isaiah said, words coming out slurred. Death’s hand had a crushing grip on him now, no matter how desperately he squirmed about. Lydia felt dread drip, slithering and thick, down her spine- and made to stand.

But the vampire had one last thing to say. One last blow to knock her down again.

“Also,” he quipped “I do believe your Stiles is trying to kill himself. I guess you better stop him from doing that. He thinks you’re dead- it’s all sickeningly Romeo and Juliet.”

“Where is he?” Lydia demanded. Burning hot panic had risen up in her chest, and the smoke from its feverish fire touch choked her lungs- she gasped raggedly, fighting back the pain.

“Ran up that stairwell. Don’t worry, the Revenant isn’t far behind,” Isaiah hummed. The Banshee gave him one last contemptuous glare, before pushing up from a crouch and onto her feet. She made to leave, but found something stilled her legs. She whirled around to face the vampire again.

“Thank you,” she said, pressing her lips together. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had said it, but she found herself soldiering on. “I’m- I’m sorry for whatever happened to you that fucked you up so badly-“ the vampire huffed amusedly at that “-and I guess... thank you.”

Isaiah nodded at her with somewhat ironic gratitude, his arrogant smirk still imprinted upon those sadistically humoured lips- but there was something in his eyes that told her he really was thankful for the words. Something lonely. Not remotely like the facade he always had on hand.

When he finally spoke, Lydia was surprised by the honesty of his words.

“I know you hate me. I hate me too,” he said quietly, his strange smirk still in place “But if I’m a bad person, at least then I have reason to hate myself.”

Lydia felt her eyebrows raise. Isaiah smirked again, before continuing.

“But now, I realise quite how tiresome hating yourself is. Let me be good for once. Kill him. Kill the Revenant.”

“I will,” she replied shortly “I’ll kill him.”

“Good,” Isaiah murmured.

And that was it. He let out a low, heavy sigh- chest deflating, body going limp- and then he just... died.

Lydia stared at him for a moment. She swallowed thickly, holding back the Banshee’s scream- but also the tears that strangely wanted to come. An odd pang of pity echoed through her heart.

She couldn’t help but feel bad for the vampire then. She’d grown on stories with princesses and heroes and fairytales, where the ending was always happy. The good guys won, the bad guys didn’t. But what about those in the shades of grey?

Maybe happy endings just weren’t meant to be for some. Maybe some were destined for tragedy, or maybe not even that. Just... loneliness. Dying alone in the end. Lydia couldn’t let her and Stiles’s story become one like that.

Pausing for one last second to look at Isaiah’s corpse- his expression oddly haunting without his usual smirk- Lydia then whirled around and sprinted off towards the gym stairwell. She rubbed furiously at her eyes, breathing raggedly. She hadn’t even been alive for five minutes, and already everything was going to shit.

She had to save Stiles. She had to stop him. But she also had to kill the Revenant. And she had no idea how she was going to do any of those things. She knew where she needed to go, up the stairwell. But that was it.

She needed help. She couldn’t do this alone. But she had no choice. She had _no_ choice.

As she leapt over the unconscious bodies and piles of debris, and staggered towards the stairwell doors, that was what terrified her the most. She had no choice. Without her, Stiles would die. _Everyone_ would die. That was definite. That was absolute.

And there it was again. The absolute. The thing that shook her to her core, scared her more than anything else had ever done before. Even more than her own death, or when Stiles pushed that stake into her chest. Unconsciously, her hands went to her heart. The wound was gone, healed by Isaiah’s blood, but the memory wasn’t. That memory would always be like a scar. Always, and absolutely.

_No._

No, she couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let this destroy her. She couldn’t let yet another thing tear her and Stiles apart.   _Screw_ the absolute. Screw the definite. She wasn’t going to let those things own her, not anymore.

So _yes,_ she might not be able to look at Stiles the same way, not after he had killed her. Yes, he might die this evening. Yes, the Revenant could win. But until those things actually happened, she wasn’t going to let them defeat her.

When she reached the stairwell doors, she ripped them open- a strawberry blonde blaze ready to burn it all down for _ever_ trying to smother her. Blow on an ember, it wavers for a moment- until the air adds fuel to the flame, and it explodes into an inferno.

Lydia went straight for the stairs, and hastily began to climb them; bounding footsteps and hitching breaths bouncing off the walls as she made her ascent. Up above, wind whistled through an open door leading to the roof. The chilled air blowing down prickled the hair on Lydia’s neck, frosting her skin with its icy caress.

And then she saw the bloody handprint slapped against the wall. Crimson streaks and splattered droplets it made the most horrific art piece. She stared at it for a moment. Somehow, she found herself even more chilled. Her gaze drifted down to follow a trail of blood just beneath the print. The clawing sensation of dread tore away at her guts.

And then she started to run. Before she had avoided sprinting because of the noise, but now sheer terror and desperation blasted through and blinded her. Instead of jogging, she began to fly up the steps, heels clacking against the concrete with deafening pitch.  

She had to reach him. She had to reach Stiles, before whatever was going to happen came next. She wasn’t going to let the absolute own her, or him, again.

***

Stiles burst through the stairwell doors and out onto the gym’s rooftop, staggering a couple steps, his breathing ragged. He hadn’t realised it before, but a storm had been brewing outside- and now heaven and hell were colliding.

Shards of ice lashed down, wind ripped and tore- the clouds cracked apart, and lightning shot out. It struck down at the earth like a viper made of gold, vanishing with a flash in an instant. Its light was lost to the storm. The torrent of hail and water crashing down drenched the world around in dark blue hues, and something malevolent bubbled in the grey void above.

The sight of the elements, so savage and cruel, chilled Stiles so deeply even his heart frosted over- like how winter ice would consume a rose bud, turning its red petals to withered, rimed blue. He shivered, but didn’t stop moving forward- even when buffeted by the wind; even when the biting cold penetrated through his skin and seeped deep enough to curl around his bones and stiffen his limbs.

Only one thing stopped him. He reached the edge of the roof, and made to escape using the fire exit- but before he could do that, he was suddenly thrown off his feet, and sent sprawling across the cold concrete floor.

He hit it with a wet thud, knocking the breath from his lungs. Contact on concrete grazed a wound on his cheek. Panicked, he tried to gasp in some air but ending up choking on the torrent of rain spiralling down instead. Chest heaving, he frantically blinked water out of his eyes, before finally having the sense to roll onto his front. When he did, two black leather shoes appeared before him.

Immediately, Stiles made to scrabble back again. Squinting through the pelting rain, he saw the Revenant’s mouth begin to open. He quickly slapped his hands over his ears.

The Revenant snarled, and lurched forward. Stiles quickly kicked him away, clambering to his feet again. He began backing up, further and further away, until suddenly the ground began to crumble beneath him. He swayed, arms flapping. He checked behind, and realised he was stood right on the precipice where the roof had collapsed in.

Stiles contemplated the drop for a moment. Looking down, he could see the destruction and bodies that lay twisted on the gym floor beneath- painted red and sprinkled with chalky debris. He felt his lips tremble and chest hitch.

He’d killed them. He was responsible for their deaths. He’d brought the Revenant back to life, and now he had to pay for what he’d done. He had to kill himself. Bring it all to an end. But how?

He shifted slightly closer to the edge, testing the boundary. Not between him and the drop, but his will and the Revenant’s enthral. If the vampire had implanted the idea in his head not to put himself in harm’s way, he wouldn’t be able to get too close to the fall- but somehow, he felt no resistance in his mind as he moved. Darkly pleased, Stiles shifted closer again. Still no resistance. Another inch closer to the edge, another inch closer to his death.

Flurried movement caught the corner of his eye, and he saw the Revenant hurtling towards him-suddenly panicked by the boy’s apparent success. His furled lips began to spit out commands that were made muffled and useless by the hands still tightly clamped against Stiles’s ears.

“ _Don’t come any closer,”_ Stiles yelled.

Though he couldn’t hear his own words, temporarily deafened and overpowered by the roaring rain, he was grimly satisfied when the vampire did come to a halt a few metres away.

“I swear to god, I’ll do it right now. I’ll kill myself,” Stiles heaved out, shuddering violently- guilt ripped at his gut, anger tore through his heart.

And then abruptly, he let out a cough. And another. Until he couldn’t stop coughing. No breathing, he wasn’t breathing. Stiles shifted an arm to cover his mouth, hands still on his ears. When the fit finally subsided, the cloth of his suit was wet. Not from the rain. From something dark, sticky. It smelt like copper, was crimson like blood. Blood. He had coughed up blood.

He was dying. He was dying, and that meant the Revenant’s transition was nearly complete. If he didn’t kill himself _now,_ it’d be too late- and he’d end up dead along with everyone else anyway.

The older man smirked, and made to take another step. Stiles abruptly cried out again; “I said _don’t come any closer!”_

He was shredded, beaten, a mess of a person. Against the cold water slashing at his skin, the tears tracking down Stiles’s cheeks were a startling contrast- feeling all too hot and scolding and _humiliating._ He didn’t want to look weak, not anymore. Especially not in front _him_. Being weak was what had caused this mess. Being weak was what had left so many people dead, and why that god forsaken stake had plunged into Lydia’s chest.

Suddenly, Stiles let out a raw, furious sob. He couldn’t take it any longer. He couldn’t take this guilt. This guilt that made it feel like rough, scathing hands were wringing his guts and twisting their talons into his chest, carving into it; carving words, words that scarred his already broken heart. _You killed her. You killed Lydia._

The Revenant shifted, uncertain perhaps for the first time in his life. The younger boy vaguely registered the vampire trying to exert his enthral without use of words, trying to lure the boy away from the ledge again- but Stiles was so lost within the deranged, spiralling maze of his mind, he simply ignored the man’s influence.

And then Stiles realised. He couldn’t be controlled anymore. Not even in the insidious manner the Revenant had tried to use to kill his dad before. He was free.

He was free to step over the edge. He could do it now. He could end it all.

Stiles made to take the final step.

***

Lydia was messy implosion of fear and fire, anger and passion- she was off the rails, no longer stable, no longer balanced. And somehow, this grounded her more harshly than ever before. She slammed her feet down on the stone steps with power, hands grappling at the stair rails and launching herself further forward.

Ragged breathing, furious sobs. A heart that wouldn’t stop, _couldn’t stop,_ frantically beating.

When she reached the top of the stairwell and its doors, she burst through them- all fiery hair and fever and passion. Though the storm above should have doused that fire, all it did was make Lydia burn brighter.

Squinting through the rain, she quickly spotted Stiles.

Stiles, who looked entirely broken and suicidal. Stiles, who was teetering on the edge where the roof had collapsed, about to take a step back. Lydia’s heart fell out of her chest.

A couple metres away from the younger boy, the Revenant stood. Stiles was shouting out something, words lost to the wailing wind of the storm. The sight of him should have paralysed Lydia, but instead it propelled her forward. She started to run, legs extending- her fiery hair whipped and wavered in the wind behind her, the flame of a candle refusing to be blown out.

“ _STILES!”_ she called out as ran, waving frantically. Neither the Revenant nor Stiles noticed her, not even the flicker of an eye in her direction- it was then that Lydia registered the hands clamped over Stiles’s ears. As the distance between them drew to a close, she was finally able to pick up on his words, carried but warbled by the wind.

“I said _don’t come any closer.”_

Lydia faltered, Stiles’s pained voice stilling her foot- it had been thick and watery and cracked like glass. Glass that must have made a cut in his heart and throat, because his words were _bleeding_ with emotion. Sadness, guilt, hurt and despair.

He really was going to kill himself. She knew that now. She could hear that, _see_ that.

The Revenant must have known it too, because when Stiles made to step back, off the roof and to his death, the vampire was prepared. He launched himself forward, grappling onto the boy. Lydia found herself spurred into action again. Racing towards the two, she screamed out for Stiles helplessly.

The Revenant had managed to stop Stiles’s fall, but not his struggles- the two viciously brawled on the precarious ledge. Lydia cried out again. Stiles still didn’t register her, too blinded by rage and deafened by the storm. The Revenant, however, did. He whirled around to face Lydia, expression incredulous and eyes furious. He didn’t have chance to glare for long though, because Stiles suddenly threw himself back- taking the Revenant with him.

But not before Lydia had reached the two. Hurling herself forward, onto the edge, her arms collided with and wrapped around Stiles’s torso- all the while hoping to god Isaiah had been right. That his blood still pulsating through her veins would be enough to heal any injury she might sustain.

There was a moment of still.

Stiles blinked. Blinked once, twice. Realised who it was. Disbelief and wonder spread across his features like a fissure following a tremor. A tremor, because the fact she was _alive_ brought his world crumbling down with overwhelming relief.

Relief that lasted only an instant, because then he realised he had thrown himself over the ledge- taking Lydia and the Revenant with him. One wrapped in his embrace, the other his grappling onto his leg.

And then they were falling.

Falling, spiralling. Clouds of debris and crumbled rock spun in a whirlwind around them, wind rushing past like a torrent, lifting Lydia’s hair and flapping Stiles’s clothes with vicious lashes. They were going to die, they were going to die, but that was okay- Lydia was with Stiles, and she really couldn’t think of anywhere else better to be.

But as it turns out, they didn’t die.

Suddenly, the Revenant erupted into a flurry of black tendrils, spiralling and twisting, and then they were no longer hurtling straight for the ground- the tangle of Lydia and Stiles and limbs veered off, and the next thing they knew they had hit the ground from an angle. It softened the fall, but not by much.

Upon impact, the two teens were sent rolling and sprawling across the floor. Though the fall hadn’t killed them, they had still hit the ground. Hard.

Lydia was winded, gasping in and out desperately for air that simply wouldn’t come. Her hands curled into fists as the pain worked its way with vicious pulses through her body. Her fingers dug into the wooden floor, hard enough to leave scours.

The Revenant, who could apparently _fly_ now, landed in an elegant fashion a couple metres away. The flurry of shadows he had been before faded into the darkness, leaving behind just him.

That was enough to get Lydia moving again. Staggering up to a stand, she grit her teeth as she felt the pain tear through her- and then Isaiah’s blood begin to sew her back together again. With a wince, she worked the knuckle of the hand Stiles had broken before. It was taking longer to heal than the rest of her body, a fresh reminder of what Stiles had done. Or what the Revenant had made him do.

Swallowing, she turned her efforts to finding Stiles. It didn’t take her long. His lolling body was sprawled just a few inches to her right, limbs a tangle and blood trickling from a split in the skin of his forehead. His eyes were closed.

Lydia felt her heart sink deeper in her chest, eliciting a small gasp from her lungs. She started toward him. And then something barrelled into her side, tossing her through the air. She hit the ground, the impact of the cold hard floor jarring. With watery eyes and ragged coughs, she quickly pulled herself up again. The Revenant stood before her, eyes glittering.

“I suppose some parasites do not always die when you want them to,” he sneered, stepping back and blocking Lydia’s sight of the unconscious Stiles.

“Sweetheart, you do realise how ironic it is that _you’re s_ aying that of all people?” Lydia snipped back “You know, with the whole coming back to life thing? Literally being an organism that feeds off other organisms? I’m pretty sure that’s the _definition_ of a parasite.”

The Revenant’s expression darkened, his calm vanishing in an instant. And without that mask, beneath there was just... void. And he really could have been that parasite, with his bloodshot eyes bulging, red veins wriggling and contorting like worms on his temple, and nothing human in his gaze.

He was instinctual. He was insidious and harmless when he wanted to be, like all infections are. But once that parasite is beneath your skin, and spawning its eggs, spreading its poison- you’re its vessel. Repulsive. _He_ was repulsive.

“Have you ever heard of Ophiocordyceps unilateralis?” the Revenant spoke up, sensing her train of thought. Lydia’s nostrils flared.

“It’s a type of parasitic fungus that affects ants,” she replied through clenched teeth. She had read about it before, having taken a particularly dark interest in the subject.

The vampire tilted his head, brows raised. He dragged an appreciative tongue across his lips. “Very good. Seems like quite an inoffensive parasite, does it not? That is, until it burrows itself into and infects the host. Do you know what happens next?”

“It takes ownership of the ant, like mind control. Forces it to leave its colony,” Lydia said, quickly realizing where this was heading “After that, the fungus makes the ant climb onto the vein of a leaf, and plant itself there, before killing its host. The parasite then ruptures from the ants head, and-“

“-Releases more fungus spores that blow onto the neighboring colony, killing them all,” the Revenant finished with a melodic lilt “Fascinating, is it not? These parasites are able to bend the rules of nature, of free will, to wipe out entire generations.”

“That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Lydia whispered, throat thick “Your enthral. Infecting Stiles. You’re using him to support your pathetic existence, before killing him and everyone he’s ever loved. Making it look like it’s his fault.”

“It is a particularly appropriate analogy. One I am quite fond of myself,” the man smiled, before slowly turning to crouch down besides Stiles.

Her view no longer blocked, Lydia’s guts wrenched at the sight of him. He was still unconscious, and initially she had thought it to be from the fall- but now it was clear it was something else. Something sinister. Blood dribbled from his nose, from the cuticles of his nails- even his eyes, where instead of tears, watery red trickled out. The Revenant huffed, abruptly turning to face her again.

“Once the parasite has established itself, it kills its host,” he said, echoing their conversation. A lazy smirk spread across his handsome features then, darkening them to sickeningly cruel ones.

His hand went to the wound on the Stiles’s forehead, caressing it almost affectionately. And then the fingertips went to pinch at the skin. More blood began to spill out of the wound then- rivers of thick red trickling down Stiles’s face. In their wake, they left behind the most horrible mess. The blood stained his stark white skin with congealed goo.

Lydia shuddered, repulsed and wanting more than anything to be by Stiles’s side again. Whatever ritual the vampires had performed on him, it was taking his toll. And from the Banshee cry she could feel on the tip of her tongue, it couldn’t be good.

The Revenant sighed down at the boy, satisfied.

And then he sprang for Stiles’s throat.

“ _NO!”_ Lydia screamed.

She felt herself begin to move, chest tight, throat choked, and her hand outstretched. She was reaching for him, reaching to save him.

But she was too late. She was always too late.


	16. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Lydia fight for their lives one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I lied. Again. Though this is officially the last chapter of this story, I’m actually in the process of writing an epilogue. I think this chapter works pretty well as the final one, but I do want to write an epilogue just to tie up any loose ends. Please let me know if there's anything in particular you want to see written :) Sadly, it's almost definite the epilogue won't be out next Wednesday. Amongst exams, I simply haven't had the time to write :(
> 
> Anyway with all that being said, I really loved writing this chapter. I think it might actually be my favourite of them all :) Writing the last few words made me pretty emotional because even with an epilogue, this chapter is the end to the story.
> 
> As always, I love you guys. Every reader, every person who leaves a comment or kudos. You’re all amazing. You’re what’s made this whole experience so gratifying for me. You’re the reason I’ve kept on going. I have a long ass paragraph lined up for the epilogue, just to say further thanks for all your guys support :) Once again, if you have the time, please let me know what you all think of this chapter!
> 
> ALSO someone pLEASE hold me after last night's episode of Teen Wolf. I was literally sobbing at those Stydia scenes. It was incredible. Seriously, incredible.

She was too late. She was always too late. She was too late to save Allison. She was too late to save Stiles. She was too late to save even herself.

And when that stake had plunged into her chest- and her life had slowly started to bleed away, each beat of her heart weaker than the next, each pump bringing her closer to death- that’s all she could think about. She couldn’t even save _herself_. Let alone anyone else. She would never be fast enough, strong enough, _smart_ enough.

Except, maybe this time she was.

Maybe she could save everyone. Maybe she _would_ save everyone. Maybe this time, she had enough _time_ to stop the evitable. To stop letting it own her. If she was alive again, if she had been able to save herself, then maybe she could save everyone else too. And everyone else started with Stiles.

And that’s when Lydia knew what she had to do.

She stopped dead in her tracks, metres away from Stiles. He was still clutched in the Revenant’s grip; the vampire’s leech-like lips were latched onto his neck, suckling at it. Lydia cringed. Vomit clawed at her throat, leaving acidic scours on the walls.

She wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill the Revenant. She wanted to watch his life bleed away, as he had watched hers. And she wanted to save Stiles. She wanted to go to him, pull him close, and never let go again.

But she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t go to him, not just yet. She knew she had to be smart about this. Smart, quick. But fortunately, that came easily to her. She was a genius, and Stiles had always known that- so he would know that she had a plan. And right now that plan was pure logic above emotion, and she hated it. But it would have to do. She had to save Stiles, and this was how she was going to do it.

So instead of going to Stiles, like she desperately wanted to, she turned away. She turned away, and instead sprinted over to Isaiah’s corpse. The Revenant seemed surprised by her actions, momentarily pulling back from the lank teen’s neck to inspect her, eyes narrowed. Obviously, he had expected her to go straight in for the attack- little did he know.

Stiles began to stir again under the Revenant’s steely grip. His body was floppy, limbs watery; but he had enough strength to strain his head and peer over the older man’s shoulder. When his eyes clapped upon Lydia, time stood still.

His heart contracted. Elation, dizzying and golden, began to swell and radiate through his veins. Despite himself, despite everything else- he couldn’t stop, didn’t _want_ to stop, the smile that began to glow upon his lips. He hadn’t imagined it. She was alive. Lydia was _alive._

And now he was about to be dead.

Because, though the Revenant had been briefly distracted by the Banshee’s plan of action, the stirring of the younger boy besides him had aroused his attention again. Before Stiles even had chance to cry out for Lydia, the vampire had reared his head back and stabbed his teeth deep down into his neck again. The cry that had been on his lips before died as a whisper.

But it wasn’t too late. Not just yet, anyway.

When Lydia reached Isaiah’s motionless body, it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. The stake protruding from the vampire’s chest wasn’t exactly hard to miss. She wrapped both hands around its hilt, pausing to look at Isaiah’s face. Blank, without that trademark smirk, it left her chilled.

Shaking her head, she began to tug at the stake. It didn’t budge. She tried again. Still, nothing. The first flush of panic broke through her adrenaline, icy and chilling. She started to work at it more feverishly then. She winced when a wet squelch came, the weapon twisting about in the fleshy wound- but it still wasn’t coming out. Lydia let out an infuriated sob, tears thick and hot.

Grey haziness came to Stiles then, smoky and seductive and cloy. He blinked slowly, as if his lashes were sticky. Letting out a shuddery sigh, he tried his best to stave away the fog beckoning him into its embrace. Life was spilling from his chest, no matter how desperately he clutched at it.

But he had to keep fighting. He had to keep fighting because maybe, _maybe_ he could stay awake long enough for Lydia to do it. To do whatever she needed to do. If she had been strong enough to come back from the dead for him, he was going to stay alive for her right now.

His fumbling, sweaty hands went to grapple at the Revenant. Stiles couldn’t see him properly, merging, blurring colours making a messy patchwork of his vision, but he still managed to find the older man’s neck. His hands curled around it, tightening their grip until the bone beneath began to crackle and shift.

Bile rose, hot and thick, in Stiles’s throat when he _felt_ the Revenant’s swallow beneath his fingertips. The vampire had taken a long, indulgent gulp, a pleasured moan easing past his lips as he did. It took Stiles a moment to realise what it was he had been drinking. Blood. It was blood. _His_ blood.

The younger boy’s struggles became even more frantic. The Revenant, seemingly unaffected by this, swatted Stiles’s hands away like you would a particularly annoying pest. Stiles flopped back again, head hitting the ground with a dull thud. His vision was immediately swallowed by black.

Lydia continued to frantically pull at the stake, but it wouldn’t budge- Isaiah must have stabbed deep with it. She let out another infuriated growl. But when she heard the thud, the sound of a skull smacking against the ground, the growl turned to a low, pained gasp. Whirling around, Lydia spotted Stiles immediately. And her heart plummeted.

His usual animated features were motionless; bright eyes dulled, lolling back into his head. The parlour of his skin was sickly- a nauseatingly pure shade of white, dewy with sweat. The sight of him knocked the breath from Lydia’s chest. Her blood went cold and hard as stone.

She turned her attention back to the wooden stake. Heart high in her throat, pounding until it felt like it might explode, she took a shuddery breath. She took a breath, sucking in the power and energy and force she needed to do this with, breath _he_ had given her- because he was still alive, not dead just yet- and then she gave the stake one last wrench.

And with that, it came free.

Stiles blinked the darkness away. He tried to lift his hands, to push the Revenant away- but found them to numb and heavy. He let them drop to the floor again, head lolling to the side. And that’s when he saw her. A streak of fire, a strawberry blonde blaze.

Lydia let out an incredulous laugh, heady sensations of relief lightening the weights pressing down on her skull. She held the stake in hand, rotating it as she inspected the weapon. The weapon that had stilled the heart in her chest. It gleamed in the light, wickedly keen and saturated red.

Stiles took a sharp breath, and she whipped her head back to him. Head lolled to the side in Lydia’s direction, his gaze was trailed upon her, glazed and distant. He was impossibly gaunt, impossibly pale. But the most impossible thing about him of all was his smile. His smile, through the hardship and pain. His smile through everything.

Hardening her grip on the stake’s hilt, Lydia leapt to her feet again. She wasn’t wasting any more time. She had done enough of that already. She had done that by ignoring the feelings that kiss in the boy’s changing room had sparked within. She had done that by telling Stiles she loved him when it was already too late.

She was not going to waste any more time.

Blinking furiously against the dust congealing with the tears in her eyes, Lydia tensed her muscles; making taut, lithe things of her limbs. And then she began to sprint. Sprint across the room, sprint towards Stiles. That final dash, that final ounce of strength. She was going to bring it all to an end. 

Stiles saw what Lydia was doing, saw her arm raised and wielded stake, and finally found the energy to do something too. Setting his stubborn jaw, he lifted his previously immobilised hands, and gave the Revenant one last shove. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to set the vampire off balance. His lips left the teen’s throat, and his head whipped up. A guttural, feral hiss ripped itself from his vocal cords.

And then Lydia was suddenly there. Her eyes met Stiles’s for a second. They were emerald, determined. And then she brought the stake down into the Revenant’s neck.

The vampire’s eyes widened, bulging- bloodshot whites popping out and the veins in them writhing about like worms bursting from the earth. His lips parted, and brilliant ruby spurted out. Stiles winced, squirming about from underneath the man’s hunched form.

He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

“His heart,” Stiles gasped out, still struggling. “Aim for his heart!”

Lydia stared at him blankly for a moment, before realising. But not before the Revenant realised, too. The vampire whipped a hand up, and the next thing Lydia knew, she had been sent sprawling across the room. She landed in a clumsy heap. She struggled to her feet, but her limbs kept slipping out from beneath her body as though the world were slicked with ice and tipping to the side. She toppled to the ground again.

Stiles grunted as the Revenant continued to twist and writhe on top of him- screeching out wet, guttural cries. The horrific sound grated against the younger boy’s ears. The stake was still protruding horribly from the vampire’s neck, blood squirting and gushing out in a hot, watery torrent from it. The vampire himself suddenly seemed to become aware of this, and a feverish hand went to grapple at it- but not before Stiles lurched himself forward, reaching for the stake too. Slowed by his broken arm, he just came short.

The two of them started to brawl for the weapon then; a cluttered tumble of swinging legs and furious blows. Adrenaline flooded back into Stiles, bringing him alive. His veins flushed with shuddering, uncontrollable energy. Shoving against the vampire once more, he managed to push the Revenant off.

He quickly scrambled up to a stand, eyes flying over to Lydia. She was blinking dazedly, but besides that, she looked okay. Stiles started towards her, but suddenly his legs jolted out from beneath him. He landed on his back again. A jarring blow, it left him winded. Stiles’s mouth groped uselessly for the breath that wouldn’t come.

And then the Revenant was there again, diving for his throat.

Stiles quickly rolled over, and the vampire narrowly missed his target- but bloody nails still managed to snatch onto the younger boy’s arms, digging in. A raw cry wrenched itself from Stiles’s lungs. The next thing he knew, the two were engaged in battle again. This time they were in a rolling, tumbling bundle. Stiles was aiming for the stake in the Revenant’s neck, while the vampire snapped viciously at his throat.

Stiles managed to gain vantage at one point, shoving the older man so he was on his back. He quickly straddled him, forearm going to press against the vampire’s jugular. Biting down on his lip to stop the screams, Stiles managed to use his broken arm to rip the stake from his opponent’s neck.

But before he had chance to use it, he was tossed onto his back. He hit his head and for a moment everything flashed black. His world rotating and disorientating, Stiles woozily blinked up. Above, the Revenant loomed. His teeth dripped with salvia churned blood.

“Lydia!” Stiles managed to cry out. His broken arm flapped uselessly about. From his lank, clumsy grip, the stake slipped and skittered across the floor. It landed just before the Banshee’s shuddering form.  She leapt forward, reaching out- but the Revenant was already prepared for that.

“Stop right there, Lydia,” the vampire snarled. With his voice deeply, darkly alluring and laced with hypnotic enthral, Lydia immediately stilled. The life drained from her eyes. Her pained expression relaxed, as did her muscles. Her arms dropped, dead weights, to her sides. Relaxation easy and smooth, her head began to droop.  

“ _No_ -” Stiles breathed, horrified. His struggles ceased immediately. The Revenant shot him a triumphant smile, tilting his head and shrugging delicately. The skin of his neck began to fold neatly, patchwork knitting together- and he was healed again.

“Though it seems you can no longer be enthralled, that does not mean you cannot be controlled,” the vampire cooed, leaning down close. His hand went to Stiles’s throat, fingers trembling with feral ecstasy as they went to prod and submerge themselves into the fleshy wound. Stiles let out a hoarse, heaving sob. It reverberated through the room, echoing like a ghost.

“Just let her go, _”_ he cried out, voice catching on the words “Just let her go, okay? I’ll- I’ll stop fighting. I’ll stop fighting. Let her _go.”_

The Revenant shook his head, eyes delirious as he waggled a trembling, blood soaked finger in front of Stiles’s face. “Oh, that’s not possible, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Stiles practically sobbed.

“See, when I was feeding on you just those few moments ago, I realised I was draining rather than replenishing myself,” he explained delightedly “It does appear I misjudged quite how close to death you are. You have a few more hours, maybe days, left in you yet. Thus sadly, neither our time together nor my transition from death to life is complete.”

The man finally removed himself from Stiles, and he would have felt relieved, had he not sat up and seen Lydia. She was still utterly enthralled; dreamy eyes clinging to the Revenant and his every move. An absent-minded smile of bliss played upon her lips. Seeing her like that, so empty; a doused flame, Stiles felt his heart might burst from his chest.

The vampire allowed his lips to slip up into a pleasured grin, mouth reddening with lustful warmth. Lust for power or Lydia, either was enough to make Stiles want to throw up. Galvanised, the younger boy struggled back up to his feet.

“I have a proposal for you, Stiles,” the Revenant announced, and before Stiles had time to inquire what that might be- apprehension a rotting, fouling sensation in his gut- the vampire had curled a finger at Lydia, beckoning her closer. She willingly complied, stumbling a couple times with her dreamy eagerness. Stiles had never felt more horrified in his life.

“Don’t you dare,” he fumed “ _Don’t you dare.”_

His eyes flicked towards the stake, just a couple metres away. He suddenly found himself darting towards it.

“I think it not wise to try and kill me again,” the Revenant drawled, lazily drawing himself up to a stand. When Lydia arrived by his side, he took her hand. Stiles stilled. “At least, not until you have heard my proposal, anyway.”

Stiles swallowed thickly, certain he had never felt this nauseous before. Then he asked the question he knew he’d regret. The question that made his heart feel like it was about to fall from his chest. “What’s your proposal?”

“You stop trying to kill me now, you stop trying to kill _yourself-_ I will let her live,” the Revenant explained calmly. His grin still spreading, it was slow and relishing. “You cannot kill me faster than I can kill her. Not even vampire blood can heal a ripped out heart. So comply with this, and I will let her live. I will let them  _all_ live. Lydia, and your friends.”

Stiles closed his eyes, unable to bare the sight of the vampire anymore. He knew there was more to it than this; he knew it had to be a trick.

“You do not believe me,” the older man simpered “But I promise you, it is the absolute truth. See, I will even take extra care with the little Banshee, despite her best attempts to kill me. Though that does not seem to be likely to happen now, anyway. Does it, Lydia? Will you ever try to kill me again?”

“No,” Lydia replied, gazing up him adoringly “Never.”

Stiles’s eyes snapped open at that, stomach churning like a blade of nausea had been twisted in. That was the trick then. He wouldn’t be saving his friends. He’d be enslaving them. They would be enthralled. The Revenant, noticing his horror, decided to dig the knife in deeper.

“I heard you speaking to Stiles before, such lovely words,” he murmured. A hand went to trail down her face, before reaching her chin. He pinched it lightly, drawing her in closer. Lydia eagerly went. “Please, say them again. This time, say them to _me.”_

“I love you,” Lydia said with a proud smile, utterly lost within the Revenant’s gaze- the gaze that swallowed up the stars and night, black and void. The man let out an amused, pleasured sound. Stiles felt sickened to his very core.

“I do like her smile. It’s rather beautiful, don’t you think Stiles?” the vampire asked, eyes glittering with menace. Before the younger boy could respond with a scathing remark, he turned his attention to Banshee once more. “Don’t stop smiling, please. Stay close by my side, like you are now. I want Stiles to see how happy you will be with me. Persuade him further.”

Lydia’s features stiffened, frozen in that god-awful smile, and leaned into the Revenant’s embrace. Stiles hissed, fists curling into balls that shuddered with explosive energy. His next words came out dark, malicious. “You’re a sick, twisted little fuck.”

“Oh, no. Not remotely. I am giving you a chance to save your love, to save your friends,” the Revenant drawled, hand absentmindedly twirling around a curl of Lydia’s hair. She snuggled in closer, and Stiles’s gut wrenched. He remembered stroking her hair himself. But back then, it had been consensual. This, _this_ was sick. Sick and twisted and horrible. And it would be killing Lydia on the inside, despite the deceptive smile lifelessly plastered to her lips.

“Have you made your decision?” the vampire inquired innocently, words politely clipped. Stiles gritted his teeth, nostrils flaring. In his peripheral vision, he eyed the stake.

“Either way, you’re going to kill people, aren’t you?” he ground out, voice cracked and split apart by crushing dread. He inched ever-so-slightly closer to the weapon on the floor. “A lot of people. And even if you do keep my friends alive, they’ll be enthralled. Enslaved. I wouldn’t wish the twisted shit you made me do upon _anyone.”_

The Revenant’s hand, which had been playing with Lydia’s strawberry blonde curls, stilled. He cocked his head, genuinely bemused. “And so, your answer to my proposal is?”

“No,” Stiles replied, head held high. “My answer is no.”

And then he lurched forward, reaching for the stake- and he just managed to do it, his fumbling, desperate hands wrapping around the hilt. The Revenant let out a startled shout and dove forward- shoving Lydia away in the process. She hit the ground with a hard, resonating crack. Stiles couldn’t stop the cry in his throat when he heard that sound. And that distraction was enough for the Revenant to gain the upper hand again.

Snatching Stiles up by the neck with one hand, the other went to harshly jerk the younger boy’s broken arm. The stake went flying away, scuttling across the floor. Stiles’s eyes bulged, hacking retches ripping themselves from his choked throat.

A couple metres away, Lydia shook her head, dazed. Dazed and enraged. That piece of shit had _violated_ her. Violated her completely, mind and soul and body. She gritted her teeth, furious energy shocking in spasms through her body. It took another few moments for the fogginess of the enthral to completely ebb away, and when it did, she noticed what lay just at her feet again. The stake.

Stiles continued to writhe about, legs jerking awkwardly as they dangled and kicked. The Revenant snarled, tightening his suffocating grip.

“You think _this_ is what it feels like to be suffocate?” he spat, shaking furiously “Imagine choking on dirt. Imagine breathing in maggots and worms. I was suffocating for _hundreds_ of years under that damned Nemeton before you came along.”

“ _Deserved it,”_ Stiles coughed out through his swollen throat.

“Pathetic, _insolent_ little boy,” the Revenant shrieked, utterly deranged “But you needn’t worry. When your time comes, I’ll make sure you go choking.”

His grip tightened further, until Stiles’s jugular startled to shift beneath the iron grip. A horrifyingly hoarse, weak gasp squeezed itself past his lips.

And then the Revenant suddenly reeled, body curling inward with a jolt. He let out a choked sob. Abrupt blood squirted past his lips, speckling his white face red. Stiles felt the grip loosen on his neck. Taking this as opportunity, he reared his head back- and then slammed it into the other man’s skull. The strangling arms dropped away then.

Stiles nearly collapsed to the floor, but managed to stagger and stay sturdy on his feet. Pain burst out from his forehead, colours and sparks radiating across his vision. He frantically blinked the delirium away, just in time to catch the stake that Lydia had tossed to him. She stood behind the Revenant, features grimly determined. She’d stabbed him in the back, Stiles realised.

With her ripped dress, makeup a messily smeared war paint and congealed blood glittering with crystallised sweat on her forehead- never had she looked more beautiful. Never had she looked more _Lydia._ That fiery, unyielding soul. All of those hard edges, softened by the smile she turned his way. A _real_ smile, not the taut one strained upon her features before. Stepping around the vampire, she went to stand by Stiles’s side once more. Her hand joined his hand where it rested on the hilt of the stake.

The Revenant continued to stumble about blindly, eyes only really focusing once they clapped upon the teens. He snarled, but it came out more like a whine. Thin, weak.

“You’re _children_ ,” he hissed “You can’t kill me.”

“And _those_ are the famous last words. Ironic as hell, if you ask me,” Stiles retorted. Tightening his grip on the hilt of the stake, bloodless white skin blossomed up on his knuckles. And then he and Lydia moved forward, together.

“You wanted me by your side and close?” Lydia seethed out through gritted teeth “How’s this for you?”

And then she and Stiles pulled the stake back, only to slam it with extra force into the Revenant’s chest.

“You were right before,” Stiles added with quiet fury.

The man’s gaze dropped to the stake jutting out from his heart. His hands went to grapple at it, but the teens kept it resolutely stuck in.

His features grimly drawn, Stiles finished: “I guess I’m not so weak.”

Lydia, as if to reinforce his point, gave the vampire her darkest, most bitter smile- a ghost of the one he had forced upon her lips before, one to haunt him to the grave. The Revenant’s eyes bulged, wide and hysterical, body shuddering frenziedly as if hit by a fever of fire and hatred and anger.

And then his skin started to split. It went taut, becoming too stretched and thin, and simply split apart. And where blood should have oozed; maggots started to spill out. Fleshy maggots, a murky cream. Stiles and Lydia gasped, snatching their hands away from the stake. They continued to gape in horror as the vampire’s demise began to unfold.

More parasites burst from the Revenant’s pores then. Writhing larvae or suckling leeches- all of them crawled across his skin, disintegrating it with their slimy, flesh-eating caress. It was revolting. The vampire let out panicked, strained shrieks. That was until worms began to wriggle and tumble from his mouth, muffling them. His legs crumpled, slamming him down onto his knees.

The parasites were feasting upon his flesh feverishly now, and in a matter of moments, his entire form was consumed by writhing, rippling waves of bugs and larvae. The only things that remained were the Revenant’s eyes, popping and wide. They were furious yet imploring on the teens’. Stiles swallowed back his revulsion. And then those eyes, those horrible eyes- they burst like spawn hatchlings.

Lydia cried out, startled. She made to back further away, but Stiles stopped her- there was no need to anymore. The Revenant’s corpse ruffled as if taking a last breath, the insects crawling across shuddering with pleasure. And then it toppled forward, hitting the ground with a wet crunch. Dead.

The parasites quickly dissipated. They washed out from the corpse across the room like a tide; scuttling beneath the piles of debris, or simply dissolving into the shadows. It took a matter of seconds, if that. And then there were none. No parasites, no Revenant. Where his corpse should have been, there was just a devoured shell. Gone. He was gone.

The two teens stared in gape-jawed awe for a moment. Stuttering breaths came out, chests throbbed with adrenaline. It was all too numb, all too surreal.

“Holy crap,” was the first thing Stiles said.

“Holy crap,” Lydia agreed, wide-eyes fixed upon at what used to be.

“I mean he did say he had been breathing maggots and worms for years, but come on. I thought the dude was just exaggerating,” Stiles exclaimed, swallowing. He shrugged then, with trembling shoulders. “But hey, at least that was pretty awesome.”

Lydia shot Stiles a withering glare. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

And then she threw herself into his arms.

Stiles staggered slightly, thrown off by the force she had barrelled into him with. But once he regained his balance, and realised it was _Lydia_ he was holding, he couldn’t stop the relieved sob that came as he folded into the embrace.

He buried his cheek into her hair, and she nestled her nose into the hollow of his neck. Irresistible smiles pushed onto their lips, watery eyes spilled tears onto one another’s hair and clothes, and then hiccupping laughs and sobs came from their throats.

“You’re alive,” Stiles exclaimed, voice trembling and thick with tears “How is that... How? You’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Lydia whispered. Her warm breath came out in a plume, heating Stiles’s chest. If it were possible, he pulled her in closer.

“I just... I don’t understand. I mean, I saw you die. I _killed_ you with my own two hands,” Stiles stammered out, shaking his head. Guilt churned in his gut, and Lydia stiffened. She titled her head up to look at him, and lightly pulled away.

“It was Isaiah,” she whispered, moving to plop down on the ground. Stiles deliberated a moment before joining her. There they sat, side by side, and somehow their hands found one another and became intertwined.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked. His thumb lightly brushed over the skin of her knuckles, relishing the warmth that radiated out of it. Never had he been so thankful to hold a hand before. And then it occurred to him. Her hand. It was supposed to be broken. _He_ had broken it. Unless... it had healed somehow.

“Isaiah, he- he wasn’t dead when you and the Revenant left,” Lydia explained slowly, swallowing. She cast her gaze out across the room, coming to a rest when she spotted the form of the dead vampire sprawled on the floor. “He gave me his blood; he killed himself so he could use his life to save mine. I don’t know why, really. He just did. And it healed me.”

There was a moment of contemplating silence. Stiles tipped the corners of his lips into a small, tentative smile. “Maybe he wasn’t as bad as we thought. I’m just glad he did. Without him, you... Lydia, I don’t know what I would do if you really were dead.”

“Go out of your mind, apparently,” she supplied with a rueful edge to her tone, thoughts going back to their argument before. It felt like years had passed since then.

“Yeah, I would,” Stiles murmured, his heart becoming heavier with its beats at the words. Lydia finally tore her eyes away from Isaiah, and looked at him then. Her brow softly furrowed. Stiles’s expression had darkened, eyes becoming partially lidded and his once bitter-sweet smile drooping into a grimace.

“Don’t blame yourself for it, okay?” she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. He didn’t return the pressure, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

He refusing to meet her eye, he asked: “For what?”

“You know what. So stop giving yourself such grief about it, and stop thinking it’s your fault,” Lydia ordered, giving him a long, stern look. The kind of look that demanded it be returned, which he reluctantly did. Lydia allowed her eyes to rest on his for a moment longer, hard and resolute, before she continued. “You’re _hurting_ yourself, Stiles. And that’s not fair. You don’t deserve it.”

“Yeah, I do. I killed you, Lydia,” Stiles ground out, shaking his head. His free hand went to tug at his hair. “I could have stopped myself, but I didn’t.”

“Do you blame me for what I did?” she demanded, fierce and firm. Stiles opened his mouth, but she quickly soldiered on. “For smiling when he told me to, or telling him I _loved_ him because he asked me to? Because you know what? _I_ don’t blame myself. He violated me completely, and I know he did! It’s his fault, not mine. Not a single ounce of me wanted to listen to him, but I had no control. Not even when I fought like hell against it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles murmured. His features softened then, becoming less guarded and more raw with remorse. “I know.”

“Okay, so the same applies to you,” Lydia insisted, squeezing his hand firmly again. This time, he returned the pressure. “Even if you don’t believe it now, you can at least _try_ to.”

There was a moment of soft, sweet silence.

“Then I guess I’ll try,” Stiles finally replied.

His eyes finally found the courage to meet her own. They were beautiful, Lydia realised with a soft pang. In the dark now, they were shaped and coloured like almonds; but once the light spilled into them, they would capture the golden glow of the sun. They would capture its warmth, and pour that into her heart.

Love. That’s what the sensation reminded her of.  A fire set alight in your chest, where it would roar away. Burning away the pain, bringing the heat that brought you to life. Eternal flames, never wavering- not even in the wind. Not even when things got hard, or when sparks clashed and flew.

Lips parting, Lydia shifted closer to Stiles. He seemed just as caught up within her own gaze, brows lightly furrowed and raised.

“I knew you had a plan, by the way,” he announced abruptly.

“What?” Lydia asked, frowning.

“When the Revenant was feeding on me, and I was dying- I thought about giving up. And then I saw you,” he explained. A shy, rueful smile came to his lips then. “And that was enough to keep me fighting, just for a little longer. I thought, if you could come back from the _freaking dead_ for me, the least I could do was stay alive for you. So I did. All because I knew you had a plan.”

“It was a terrible plan,” Lydia pointed out, smiling self-deprecatingly.

“Yeah, awful. You stabbed the dude in the neck. Everyone knows you stab vamps in the heart. It’s like, the absolute rudimentary basics,” Stiles grinned.

“Signature thing,” she reminded him.

“What?” Stiles asked, cocking his head.

“If you can get away with the excuse that terrible plans are our signature thing, so can I,” she snapped, moving her hand to flick his forehead. Stiles jolted slightly but, to her dismay, his irritatingly adorable grin widened. Indignant, Lydia flicked his head again, this time with more force.

“Fine, fine,” Stiles relented playfully, smothering the offending smile “But you know, I still trusted you. Even if your plan was terrible.”

“You did?” Lydia asked.

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll always trust you,” he replied “I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

Lydia felt a sudden tug at her chest then. He was echoing his words from before. The words from that ledge, when he had been about to climb up the cliff-face. The words from their last few moments together before he had left.

He had said those words because he couldn’t say the real ones. The ones that really mattered, more than anything else. Seeing Lydia’s expression, soft and melancholy, Stiles realised this.

“I love you,” he corrected.

And that’s all it took. All it took to make everything okay. To soothe all the fear and pain.

Lydia smiled at him then- one of her shy smiles, despite her usual confidence. One of her smiles reserved for just him. And he smiled right back. Then she leaned into his chest, and he wrapped his unbroken arm around her back, and pulled her in close.

It was okay now. It was all okay.

Off in the distance, sirens began to wail.

Lydia allowed her gaze to drift out across the room again. With a swollen chest, she took in the destruction around. The piles of rubble and shattered shards of the bleachers interspersed throughout; the broken Christmas lights that dangled and burst out in sparks- they formed lens flares in the corner of her vision when she moved her eye along. She noticed that through the collapsed roof, lilac blue morning hues had started to spill through. Dawn. It was approaching dawn. A new day, a new life. Quite literally for her, anyway.

Lydia’s attention suddenly flew to the bodies stirring on the floor. All around, people were beginning to wake, as if brought alive by the promise of a new day. Relief brought tears to her eyes, and she snuggled further into Stiles’s embrace. Maybe more people had survived than they originally thought. Maybe they had saved more than they realised.

The sirens were fast approaching now. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, biting down on her lip. All she wanted was sleep now. Sleep, and to drift away. And finally, it was okay to do that. With the horrors of the world gone, everything that she needed to do done, she could finally rest her head. So she did. She rested it on Stiles’s shoulder.

“Stiles,” she said quietly, eyes cracking open ever-so-slightly.

“Yeah?” he asked, sweet and earnest.

“I couldn’t sleep when you were gone,” she admitted. The next words came out reluctant, embarrassed. “Could you stay with me? I don’t really feel like going home alone.”

“Of course,” he murmured, moving a hand to stroke her head. His touch was shy, gentle. But for some reason, there was so _much_ in just having his skin on hers. So much unspoken emotion, encompassing a thousand words. Where Lydia had felt embarrassed before, now she simply felt soothed.

When the police and ambulances arrived, they stayed like that. Amid the chaos, amid the rushing blur of the world. Everything around them was broken- arms, legs, people. But somehow, they weren’t so broken themselves. Instead, they slotted together, and became fixed. Two pieces meant to fit.

“Of course,” Stiles had said, hand on her head.

And then, he had added: “I’ll take you home.”


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the supernatural drama has settled down once more, but Lydia and Stiles still have their feelings for one another left to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end!
> 
> It's seriously bizarre to come back to this fic, write this author's note, and know it's the one to bring this story to a close. This is by far my biggest writing project ever (I started it in early October), and I love it so much. It's heavily flawed, dodgy in parts, and definitely will make me cringe if I ever go to read over it again- and I love it so much.
> 
> Writing this fic has genuinely one of the happiest times of my life. Not in terms of being exciting or epic. Just... content. Appreciating all the little things, finding so much joy in simple words jotted down onto a page. Now that school responsibilities have finally caught up to me, and I haven't been able to write like I used to, that glow has faded- but posting this final chapter has kindled that joy again :) I'd really love to write another story. If that actually happens, we'll just have to wait and see!
> 
> Anyway, this long ass author's note is only really meant to be saying one thing- thank you. Thank you guys so much. Every single reader, everyone who has left a wonderful kudos or comment. Everyone who has thought this is crap, everyone who has thought this is amazing. I know this story isn't high quality, or of great popularity- but just having readers is so so gratifying, I couldn't care less. And to have some of you be so lovely, and leave comments that actually bring me to tears... It's truly amazing. Thank you. I've always loved writing. You guys have made me love sharing it :) 
> 
> I'll stop rambling now. Prepare yourself for a shamelessly cheesy epilogue, where we finally get to see what's been building this entire fic happen ;) After the horrible angst I put Lydia and Stiles through, they deserve a happy ending lmao- especially seeing as it looks like Stydia is finally going to become canon in Season 6 OH MY GOD
> 
> I love you guys, thank you so so much, and I hope you enjoy this final chapter :)

Home was a hard place to get to. Home came after the hospital visit. Home came after being interviewed by the police. As it turned out, being at the centre of a homicidal vampire attack on the town was a hard thing to explain- but fortunately, the vampires had been quick to cover their tracks before fleeing. It sickened Lydia, but for once she was glad they had their enthral.

And so, the Beacon Hills residents had been led to believe they were the targets of an extremist group attack. And while that wasn’t an ideal explanation- in fact, it was an absolutely horrific explanation- it was supposedly better than the alternative; exposing the supernatural. Though Lydia wasn’t so sure about that herself.

Sometimes, she found herself questioning whether or not keeping everyone else in the dark was really such a good idea. Would people be able to protect themselves better with the knowledge of the supernatural? Or would the town simply dissolve into hysteria?

Eventually, Lydia came to the conclusion that things were best left as they were. Supposedly, the fantastical world of werewolves and kitsunes and vampires had settled down once more, and so, for now, ignorance would have to do. Though, if Lydia was being realistic- she knew the calm would be short-lived. Beacon Hills was most definitely beacon for the totally bizarre and supernatural, as she had once so accurately put it.

And so, in a town like this, home was a hard place to get to. Home came after the kidnappings. Home came after the killings. Home came after the epic stand-offs with villains, the hospital visits, the police interrogations. And somehow, four weeks following all _that_ crap, Lydia still wasn’t home yet. 

She had been home physically, of course. But it was there, lying in bed and utterly alone, nightmarish shadows casting distorted shapes on the bedroom walls, that she realised she had been right before. Home wasn’t four walls. It wasn’t being tucked beneath your duvet, surrounded by all too familiar things.

Home was _his_ arms wrapped around her tiny frame. Home was a promise that there, things would always be okay. Maybe that was a cliché, but Lydia didn’t care. Clichés were clichés for a reason- they were true.

And so, she still wasn’t home yet. She still wasn’t with _Stiles_ yet. And it was all because of one thing. She was an idiot.

She was an idiot. He was an idiot. Both of them were idiots. And for two supposed geniuses, that was pretty incredible.

They had drifted apart again. And though they weren’t entirely to blame for the distance between them this time, it was still partially their fault.

Stiles had been discharged from the hospital a week ago. Following his deadly blood loss, head trauma, _psychological_ trauma, severely broken arm, torn and bruised throat, he had basically been a walking open wound. Hence, his three week hospital visit. Or imprisonment, as Stiles would probably like to call it. Lydia had tried to visit him. But with her Mom hysterical after her going missing _again_ , she had barely been allowed to leave the house for school, let alone to visit Stiles in the Hospital.

But she still could have snuck out. She still could have found _some_ way to see him again. But she hadn’t. And so, it was her fault that they hadn’t seen each other since the night of the Ball. But it was definitely his fault, too. There was no forgetting the fact it had been a week since Stiles had been discharged from the hospital, and he still hadn’t contacted her. Neither of them were sure why. Lydia wasn’t sure why she hadn’t visited. Stiles wasn’t sure why he hadn’t called.

That was, until today. Today being the day Stiles Stilinski finally plucked up the courage to pull up outside Lydia Martin’s house in his Jeep, and Lydia Martin had finally decided to give Stiles Stilinski a call. Coincidentally, they had both done so at the exact same time. That had been awkward and confusing.

Talk of awkward and confusing things reminded Lydia of the task at hand- because this, _this_ was most definitely awkward. And confusing. And it required her full concentration, because _god-_ who would have thought it would be this hard _not_ to kiss Stiles Stilinski? If he weren’t so infuriatingly adorable, her job might have been made a little bit easier. But as it were, it seemed Stiles’s personal mission in life was to leave her as muddled as possible.

Hence, their situation right now. Sat in Roscoe the Jeep, windows down, their breathing the only sound, desperately trying to ignore the thick tension between them. Sexual tension, awkwardness induced tension, you-saved-my-life-and-I-saved-yours-after-you-accidentally-killed-me tension. Whatever you want to call it. Basically, it was a hot angst-filled mess.

So Lydia tried her best to focus on something else. Something else besides how much she wanted to kiss Stiles in that moment.

The air inside the Jeep was clean with the hearty earth smells blown in by the brisk breeze. She breathed that in instead of Stiles’s oaky, darkly spiced aftershave. She looked at the sunset in the sky instead of the gold in his eyes. Azure blue melted into tropical orange hues; cottony clouds were fringed by vibrant red as the sun settled behind them. Trees and leaves were crystallised by glittering ice. It was all beautiful. It was all breathtaking.

But not as breathtaking as looking at him.

And finally, Lydia couldn’t take it anymore.

“So, have you actually got a destination in mind?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence “Or are we driving aimlessly around in your crappy Jeep just for the heck of it?”

“I’m going to ignore the fact you were just so grievously rude to Roscoe,” Stiles replied with a chirp, noticeably relaxing “And say that you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I hate surprises,” Lydia groaned. She deliberated for a moment, before it occurred to her. “Wait a sec. Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Stiles asked innocently.

Lydia rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to punch his arm. “Keeping me in suspense. You know I hate it, so you’re doing it on purpose.”

She saw Stiles’s eyes widen in the rear-view mirror. “No, I’m not.”

“ _Stiles.”_

“Okay, yeah, maybe I am doing it a little bit on purpose,” he admitted, fingers tapping on Roscoe’s wheel erratically “Think of it as punishment for next time you insult my baby.”

Lydia gave him a long look. “You call this car baby once more time, I swear- I’ll tell your dad about that time you and Scott smoked weed. How’s that as punishment for you?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Stiles said, paling.

“I guess you better tell me where we’re headed then,” she replied sweetly.

Stiles’s nostrils flared, and his lips twisted down into a parody of a grimace. “As much as it pains me to say this, I’m still not gonna tell you. Not because I’m punishing you though, okay? I just want it to be a surprise. A _nice_ surprise.”

“Oh god, _fine_ ,” Lydia sighed, relenting. The conversation really wasn’t going how she wanted it to- but at least they were able to have their usual (though slightly scathing) banter. Swallowing, she attempted again to say what was really bothering her. But Stiles got there first.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you,” he blurted out, one hand tightening its grip on the Jeep’s wheel- the other going to scrub sheepishly at his hair.

“That’s okay,” Lydia said, swallowing.

“No, it’s not,” Stiles exclaimed, shaking his head. He ran a tongue along his lips, agitated. Lydia half-wished he hadn’t done that; she was already struggling to keep her hormones under control and now, on top of everything else, her eyes had been drawn down to his soft lips. She sighed, manicured nails going to pluck at the floral fabric of her dress.

“It’s my fault, too,” she finally said. Stiles looked at her for a moment. And then he finally eased off the gas, and cruised Roscoe to a stop. They were in the middle of Beacon Hills Preserve, she noticed.

“No, it’s really, _really_ not,” he muttered, jerking the car’s handbrake into place. He turned to face her again. “I don’t know why I didn’t call. I’ve got no justification for it. No reason. Just an apology, I guess.”

Lydia shook her head, biting down on her lip. “Stiles, seriously? I didn’t call or visit you either. It’s okay.”

“No, it _can’t_ be okay. We already had this weird... _distance_ between us before the whole vampire kidnapping thing, and I really don’t want history to repeat,” Stiles replied, frustrated “So yeah, no, I don’t guess I owe you an apology. I _do_ owe you an apology.”

“Then I owe you one too,” was all the Banshee replied.

Stiles’s eyes flicked back and forth across her face, deliberating. Lydia couldn’t help the way her breath caught when he looked at her like _that._ Instinctually, her gaze fluttered down to his lips again. It would have been so easy. So easy to kiss him then. Yearning was a deep churning in her chest, swelling and making it all too difficult to breathe. For someone who was supposed to give her air, he seemed to leave her without it just as effortlessly.

“We’re idiots,” Lydia said, biting down hard on her lip.

Stiles swallowed, breath coming out in shudders. “Yeah, we are.”

“I missed you,” Lydia said, wincing at how awkwardly the words came out.

“I missed you, too,” Stiles replied automatically, not seeming to notice or care. His gaze danced down to her lips for a moment, before up to her eyes again. “I think I _do_ know why I’ve pulled back. And why I pulled back for the first time, too. I’m putting off the inevitable.”

“The inevitable?” Lydia echoed, brow creasing lightly. The inevitable. Absolute. Why had that become such a running theme in her life?

Stiles nodded, before reaching to pull something from his plaid shirt’s pocket. It was a folded piece of lined paper, and Lydia’s frown deepened. She recognised it vaguely.

“I... I’m putting it off because I’m scared,” he began again, fingers fiddling with the paper “I’m scared of losing what we have. I’m scared of losing you. Just having you in my life has always been enough, Lydia. I never needed more than that. And this, whatever _this_ is exactly- it’s always threatened that kind of balance, I guess.”

“What exactly are you saying, Stiles?” Lydia asked, narrowing her eyes.

He inhaled sharply, chest swelling- and then he blurted it out. “I’m saying I love you so much. I love you too much.”

Lydia began to say something, but what he said next left her utterly robbed of words.

“And I- I don’t know if you love me enough to risk it. I don’t know if you love me at all, really,” Stiles sucked in a shuddery breath, and suddenly tore his eyes away. “What you said after I died- that you only kissed me because you got caught up in the moment- it just got stuck in my head. I thought maybe that’s all this is, really. You only love me when we’re about to die, and get swept up in the moment. And I don’t love you in just one single moment. I’ll _always_ love you.”

Lydia’s heart jolted. Lips parting, eyes watering; she said the only thing she could think of- which wasn’t much, really. And that somehow made everything go to shit.

“You’re an idiot, Stiles,” she whispered.

Stiles gave her a hard, incredulous look. His expression turned frosty, but the hurt in his eyes was unmistakable. Letting out an angry huff, he tossed the folded paper he had held before at the dashboard- and then swung open the Jeep’s door, storming out. Lydia flinched.

Not entirely processing what had just happened, she just watched him go. She watched him, with his back turned, feet slamming down into the ground and hands viciously tugging at his hair- and then she went sprinting after him, snatching up and tucking into her pocket the piece of paper he had thrown as she did so.

“You took me to the Preserve,” she called out. Stiles’s head twitched- indicating he had heard, but didn’t care to answer her. Biting down on her lip, she tried again. “You were going to take me to the cliff edge, weren’t you? I know why, Stiles.”

Still, he refused to answer. Lydia found herself agitated now, with him and herself. How had she already managed to mess things up? Why wouldn’t he just stop and _listen_? Why couldn’t she find the _real_ words, not shitty ones that somehow made everything worse?

“You’re not an idiot, okay? That’s not what I meant,” she called out again, delicately skipping over the debris-strewn earth as she attempted to catch up with his fervent pace. Ahead, the Preserve’s cliff edge was coming into view.

Tired and breathless, she tried one last time. “Stiles.”

He finally came to a stop. He had reached the cliff edge. Shoulders lifting with a sigh, he turned to face her. With the sunset just behind, he was a silhouette against the red and purple streaked sky- the final rays of light dipping just beneath the tree line. And even in the dark, she could still feel the warm glow of his eyes upon her skin.

He was so breathtaking. He was so perfect. That boy with unruly hair, a plaid shirt thrown over a graphic-tee- he had a silly smile and awkward feet. And he was perfect. Messy, clumsy. Really annoying and insulting at times. And perfect.

Stiles’s gaze trailed to meet hers then. He wasn’t angry anymore. Lydia felt her lips part, her chest deflate with a sigh. Slowing from a jog to walking pace again, she made her way over to him. He watched her. Just watched her.

The woods were quiet now. The crunch of ice encased leaves beneath her feet, her and Stiles’s ragged breathing- birds’ beautiful chirrups echoing in the distance, far away- those were the sounds of that night. The air around was still faintly warm, the last of the sun’s heated imprint on the earth fading. Her breath came out in glittering plumes. Moonlight began to spill silver tears onto his skin, glazing it with ethereal sheen.

His eyes were on hers. And her eyes; they were on his.

When she finally reached him, Stiles took her into his arms. He took her into his arms, and she went. They were hugging again, and it felt so warm and _safe_ to be in his embrace- and after everything they had been through together, that made sense. Her hands found his cheeks, and went to cup them. Her tentative fingertips ghosted over the shadows the faint moonlight cast upon his skin.

His breath hitched. She bit down on her bottom lip.

They were so _close_ now. His skin was like a glow beneath her fingertips. She touched it, and that glow began to radiate from him and into her veins, soaking them in golden warmth. He kept his head low, cheeks flushed; heat despite the winter month.

His nose was mere millimetres from hers now. All he had to do was dip it down slightly further, and the tips would brush. There was a lurch in her chest- a want so deep and swirling Lydia could have sworn she had never needed to close a distance more.

“I know why you brought me here,” she whispered, saying the words again. A small smile tickled her lips at his awed expression. “It’s where I first said it, isn’t it?”

Stiles seemed breathless, so merely nodded- air coming out of his lungs with a low huff. His head dropped lower, and their foreheads were touching now. Lydia felt a swell inside, and she was certain she loved him so much, her heart might burst from her chest.

“Stiles,” she breathed, her hands now shifting to curl into his hair. “I don’t know how I can get you to believe me. I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered, eyes drifting to a close. He leant further into her, and there was nothing between them now. Just a slither of space, barely a whisper between their lips. Lydia’s heart skipped. “You don’t have to. I’m sorry.”

“But I want to,” she murmured, a soft curve to her lips “You have to know.”

She back very gently from Stiles then. His eyes cracked open an inch. Golden brown met emerald green. His lips parted, hands going to cup her cheeks. Then everything else- the moon, the stars, and the world- it all just fell away.

In the end, there was only one thing left. Only one thing that mattered. She was in his arms again.

Lydia smiled despite the ache in her chest, and moved to thread and weave her fingers into his hair- needles easing through silk, pulling them closer together than ever before. And by doing that, she closed the space between them. That whisper of space between her and his lips.

And then she was kissing him.

And who’d have thought it would be Stiles. Stiles, that awkward and gawky boy. Stiles with a hopeless crush on a seemingly unattainable girl. Stiles who irritated her to no end, who challenged her like no one else. Who’d have thought it would be Stiles to make her feel like _this._

Because whatever this was, it was special. It was two people, their lips, and should have been as simple as that. But it wasn’t.

She couldn’t say it was perfect. It wasn’t. It was messy, and she couldn’t quite breathe properly, and her heart was hammering almost painfully in her chest. It didn’t have soaring music, and they weren’t caught up in torrential rain.

It was just special. That’s it.

It was loud with the pound from her chest, yet quiet in its beauty. It was soft and sweet and sincere, and the exhilaration of it left her legs feeling like they were made of air. Just these simple things, adding up to make something indescribably unique. Something breathtaking.

Lydia realised something then. This had always been inevitable. And maybe that’s why it had scared her. But now she knew that after anticipating somebody else’s lips against yours for so long, after worrying about ever single little thing that could go wrong- when it actually happened, it was worth it. Worth the chances and the risks and the heartbreaks. Kissing him was the best feeling in the world.

Stiles sighed against her mouth, and she could feel his lips curve into a smile. Everything about him was glowing and golden, and Lydia wasn’t entirely sure that made sense- but she was so drunk on his lips, she didn’t care. Elation was swirling and sweetly blissful in her veins, and every nerve in her body crackled with achingly hot adrenaline.

Time was a pretty loose concept nowadays. But eventually, after what could only really be quantified as a small eternity, Lydia pulled away. Somehow, impossibly, she pulled away. They stared at each other for a moment- breathing ragged, eyes dancing. Where her hands had shifted to his chest, the throb of his heartbeat was skittish beneath her fingertips.

Lydia swallowed thickly, tears burning in her eyes; but for once, she didn’t care to hold them back. She was perfectly okay with being open with him now. Finally, she sucked in a deep breath, chest shuddery. And then she said the words that oddly seemed appropriate now.

“You’re an _idiot,_ Stiles,” she breathed, letting out an airy laugh “A surprisingly intellectual idiot, I might add.”

“And why is that?” Stiles asked with a grin. Because of course he _knew_ what she meant now, and wanted the satisfaction of actually hearing her say it. Which Lydia did. She had to take another deep breath, and brace herself- but she did it.

“Because I think it’s pretty obvious how I feel about you, and you don’t seem to get it,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“How do you feel about me?” he pried, practically glowing now. Stiles never made it easy on her. But that was okay. Lydia liked the challenge.

“I love you,” she said, finally having the courage to raise her voice from a whisper. Straightening her back, shifting her hands so they were braced against his chest, she said again: “I love you, Stiles. So stop being an idiot, and believe it.”

“Love you too,” Stiles replied, his grin so wide and contagious he practically _forced_ a similar one onto her own lips. She quickly ducked her head down in an attempt to conceal it. She heard Stiles let out an amused huff, before his fingertips found her chin and delicately tipped her face up to meet his again. Embarrassment was a rosy flush blossoming on her cheeks. Since when had she ever been nervous around a boy? She was meant to be good at this. And yet, as always, Stiles managed to effortlessly turn her world upside down.

“You really struggle, don’t you?” Stiles asked, grin becoming softer now. Lydia quirked up an eyebrow, confused. He hurriedly explained. “With opening up, I mean. You only really do it when it’s life or death.”

Lydia said nothing.

Stiles sighed. “I guess that explains why it’s taken us so long. I thought you weren’t interested, but it turns out you were too busy trying to hide it.”

“Like I said before, we’re both idiots,” Lydia finally muttered. She became acutely aware of how close they _really_ were, everywhere his skin touched hers sizzling with heat. Feeling another flush come to her cheeks, she shifted slightly. And as she did, she heard something crinkle from in her jacket pocket. Stiles frowned. Lydia kept her eyes on his, and she moved to dip her hand into the pocket.

When she pulled it out again, a crumpled piece of paper was resting on her palm. It was the paper he had held before. She had forgotten she had even put it there. Stiles’s eyes widened, and he went to snatch it- but Lydia gave a delighted little yelp and whirled away, paper still clutched in her grasp.

“Lydia, seriously, don’t,” Stiles exclaimed, voice tight. She ignored him, head dipped down as she went to unfurl the paper. And then she realised why it had looked familiar before. Stiles sighed in defeat. “It’s embarrassing, I know. Don’t judge me, okay?”

Lydia felt a soft pang in her chest. She turned to face Stiles again, and her breath hitched. His shoulders lifted slightly with his own ragged breathing. Then she went to him, and placed the paper in his hands, before intertwining her fingers with his. Now their skin was not separated by a small space, but a piece of paper. And on that piece of paper was a drawing.

“It’s my drawing of the Nemeton isn’t it?” Lydia said, lips quirking up at the corners “It reminds you of our first kiss. You might be cynical Stiles, but I swear to god, you’re such an old romantic you could have written the Notebook.”

“But you like the Notebook,” Stiles pointed out, the high curves of his cheekbones flushed.

“Exactly,” Lydia said, before popping a kiss on those red cheeks. Instead of cooling them, if possible, his skin deepened in its maroon. Lydia couldn’t stop her smirk at the satisfaction of being able to so easily make Stiles Stilinski blush. For the amount of times he had made her laugh at one of his terrible jokes, he deserved it. She planted another quick kiss on his lips.

“Okay, stop. This is torture,” Stiles exclaimed, pulling back from her.

 _“Exactly,”_ Lydia said again, batting her eyelashes “’Think of it as punishment for next time you try to keep me in suspense.’ That means no surprises, and no more pretending we don’t like each other. Okay?”

“Love each other,” Stiles corrected immediately, shooting her a devious look. Lydia rolled her eyes. “Okay, definitely. And hey, one more thing.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”

“You were wrong. I think this is the one and only time I can say it, but Lydia Martin was actually wrong about something,” Stiles said, smiling down at her.

“Stiles, that’s not the kind of thing you say if you want to get laid tonight,” she replied sweetly, giving his chest a pat with her free hand.

Stiles’s eyes widened. “ _Holy_ crap, I didn’t even realise that was on the table.”

“It’s not anymore.”

“Okay, just let me explain,” Stiles hastily began, his breath juddering “You’re wrong about why I kept the drawing. I didn’t actually bring it today because it reminds me of our first kiss. We’re at the place you first said you loved me, so it’s already symbolic enough. I mean, really, any more symbolism and we’d belong in English literature novel.”

“Stiles,” Lydia sighed tolerantly “You’re rambling.”

“Yeah, sorry. Nervous,” he swallowed thickly, before cautiously shifting his free hand to cup her cheek “Anyway, I brought it because I wanted you to know when you died, this drawing was what... kept me going, I guess. It sounds so stupid out loud, but I just thought if I held it, I could pretend you were there. Even if you weren’t.”

Not for the first time that evening, Lydia found herself at a loss for words. So instead of anything, she simply pulled her hand apart from his, and picked the drawing up. She held it between her finger and thumb, between her and Stiles’s faces. Her eyes met his briefly.

And then she turned to the cliff edge, and let the drawing go. It floated for a moment, before being caught by the brisk winter breeze and fluttering away, down the precipice.

She turned back to him, smiling tentatively.

“Stiles, you don’t need it anymore, okay? Stiles... You’ve got me. I’m _here_ ,” she murmured, both of her hands going to link with his. “I’m here with you. And from now on, I promise, I always will be.”

He was silent for a few moments, eyes flitting back and forth across her features. Finally, he took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky in a parody of a romantic male lead. “So is that little hypothetical thing we were talking about before not so hypothetical now?”

“It’s back on the table, yes,” Lydia smirked, giving his arm a light thwack “It’s a definite maybe.”

“See? Being shamelessly cheesy is a recognised method of flirting,” Stiles pointed out. Dipping his head down so their noses were brushing, he moulded his lips to hers once more. Lydia sighed, stomach swirling and heart light in her chest- something once so heavy and anchored with weight, set adrift by his soft kiss. She pulled back again, gasping raggedly.

“I really do love you,” she breathed, catching even herself off guard. Stiles’s eyes widened, and she could feel herself getting drunk on the pools of whiskey and gold within them. She had to look away, grinning and breathing still uneven.

“I like it when you smile like that,” he whispered, voice cracked.

“Like what?” she asked quietly.

“Like you’re smiling because of me,” Stiles murmured. At his words, she finally found the courage to look at him again. Her pulse fluttered. Her pulse fluttered like that piece of paper, caught in the breeze.

And she really _did_ smile at him then. With a butterfly heart, and sweet lips up in a playful curve; she smiled that tentative smile of hers. That beautiful smile. That smile because of him.

And then Stiles smiled, too- awe in his eyes, a lump in his throat. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was all actually real. But it was. It was. He was with her. And she was with him. So he gently took her into his arms, and she went again. She went, and turned her face to rest against his chest, and look out across the world.

The sky was a velvety dark blue now, beaded stars and a pearly moon making glittering jewellery out of the night. Beacon Hills lay just below the beautiful display, the luminous orbs from the city lights bobbing and swelling like fireflies. All of it, all of the beauty beyond; it was just a backdrop to them. They were the only two things that mattered in the world. Well, that’s how it felt to them, anyway.

And it was all because his arms were wrapped around her tiny frame. It was all because in his arms, he held a promise. A promise that there, things would always be okay.

And it was. She was with him, and it was all okay.

She was home.


End file.
